


Bits and Bobs and Badges

by Maiden_of_the_Moon



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blob Cecil, Canon Related, Cecil is Human, Domestic, Earl Harlan deserves nice things, Eldritch Abomination Cecil, Eldritch abomination Earl, Fluff, Genderbending, Humor, M/M, Mpreg, Pre-Canon, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-02-05 18:18:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 110
Words: 92,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1827799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maiden_of_the_Moon/pseuds/Maiden_of_the_Moon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cecil's grin is as wide and white as the rising moon, the light of which pours through their bedroom window in misty sheets. Fireflies glint in the yard beyond, rising in clusters and constellations from the tall grass. Up and up, into the black and the gray. There are clouds in that lovely twilight sky, bringing the possibility of rain... And there is the promise of danger, too, of fear, as there always is in the dark and the unknown. But there is also beauty, and togetherness, and excitement, and Earl.</p><p>There is always Earl.</p><p>[A collection of Cecearl ficlets]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What's In a Name

**Author's Note:**

> My bestie has recently had a rough time sleeping, so I've been trying to text her happy Cecearl bedtime stories. This is a collection of that derpery, posted with her blessing. Since, you know, the WTNV fandom needs HELP. :) 
> 
> Please be warned that these ficlets may or may not relate back to one another, were all written fairly late at night (on my phone), and often draw heavily on Punkrockgaia's "Eternity!Vale" AU. Because that fic is deeply awesome and we're both madly in love with it.

"Okay, but, like... _anything_."

"Anything?" Earl echoes, his disbelief underscored by an incredulous arch of his brow. Cross-legged and prim atop the purple bedspread beside him, Cecil nods-- once, somberly. Both his glasses and the green, glittery globs of nail polish upon his applicator brush glimmer in the low light of the loft.

"Anything. And I promise I won't tease you for your terrible hillbilly tastes," Cecil assures, the grimness of his features adorably offset by the way he's trying to blow his nails dry. Earl smiles, only partly in response to the conversation itself.

"Then... Billy Bob," he offers, singsong but sincere.

"..."

"Just Bob?"

"For the love of God, please tell me you're joking."

"If I was joking, you'd be laughing," Earl grins, giving his newspaper an exaggerated rustle. His husband's stare is as flat as his voice as he quickly reassures:

"I am laughing on the inside. Oh, am I ever laughing on the inside. Now I am laughing on the outside: HAHAHA. Listen to that laugh. I have turned it into a joke."

"Congratulations. Are you looking for a badge for your efforts?" the scoutmaster snorts, though with more affection than wryness. Cecil is too busy shuddering in disgust to offer much reply. Earl rolls his eyes. "All right, then. What name would _you_ choose?"

"Hmmm. Laura. Laura Palmer."

"...I think we'd get sued. And that you've watched too much Twin Peaks."

"Says the guy who chose _Bob_!" Cecil retorts, jabbing a playful elbow into Earl's side. The redhead allows himself to be jostled, grinning.

"What, it at least makes sense! That's what kids _do_ ," Earl protests, retaliating with a throw pillow lightly lobbed at Cecil's head. It misses by a foot. Intentionally so, both know. "They act like little demons who take over you and your life and when you look up you often find them lurking at the foot of your bed."

"Wow. You're certainly selling this whole having-a-baby thing."

"I know, right?" Earl keens, his doe eyes bright with so much earnestness that they nearly glow. "It'll be awesome!"

Cecil's answering grin is as wide and white as the rising moon, the light of which pours through their bedroom window in misty sheets. Fireflies glint like so much nail polish in the yard beyond, rising in clusters and constellations from the tall grass. Up and up. Into the black and the gray. There are clouds in that lovely twilight sky, bringing the possibility of rain... And there is the promise of danger, too, of fear, as there always is in the dark and the unknown. But there is also beauty, and togetherness, and excitement, and Earl.

There is always Earl.

Cecil takes a deep breath, finishing his manicure with a flourish and a flick.

"Yes. It'll be awesome."

  
**XXX**   


Please come Huddle with Us on [tumblr](http://singacrossthemoon.tumblr.com/)!


	2. Moonlight

"I can't believe we're doing this..."

"Shhh!"

"I can't believe we're doing this...!"

"Sweet spire, we're not gonna get to do _anything_ if we're caught!" Cecil hisses, shooting a glare at his best friend. He doesn't need to look far to find that flustered freckled face; his fellow scout is practically hunched over Cecil's shoulder, draped across a partially manifested arm and gawping with eyes as red and as black (and as black and as red) as certain gelatinous tendrils. Earl swallows thickly, mesmerized as Cecil's prehensile tentacles squish and squeak their way into a keyhole, turning gears and nullifying enchantments.

"We are gonna be in sooo much trouble if we're caught, Cecil!" the ginger reminds, his soft voice cracking beneath the combined weight of fear and excitement, anticipation and puberty. "Are you sure it's really worth it? We could just... We could just play Taboo."

"That's kinda what we're doing now, isn't it?" Cecil smirks, turning the phrase with a smirk sharp enough to cut a man. A man's lips, specifically.

Earl flushes a muted shade of lavender as Cecil slurps his gelatinous flesh back through the brass knob. He gives the appendage a brisk shake, as if to assess its stability, then tests his weight against the rooftop door.

It gives.

"You can't tell me you don't want to see it," Cecil goads in a quiet, singsong voice, offering his companion his now-humanoid hand. And Earl, immediately, takes it. Nods. Does not deny Cecil's claim, nor amend it by admitting that he would be happy to see Armageddon (in movie format or apocalyptic reality) if it meant spending more time together.

"Let's go. Before the camp councilors smell that we're missing."

Rusting metal creaks on oxidized hinges. The barrier falls away... And there is absolutely nothing beyond it.

No-- no, that is not quite true. There is blackness, familiar in its oppressiveness and terror, but lacking its usual emptiness. The pair squints for a moment, stepping with trepidation and clasped fingers into the suckling void... And realize that, if they gaze into its horrors for long enough, there appear pinpricks of light. Small, and shining, and tenacious-- like little clusters of hope, silver and pale and indigo. Stars. Galaxies. Infinities of cosmoses far beyond Night Vale, where overlords rule and inevitable death waits. And there-- just there-- strung high above on threadbare strands, peeking through the shimmering rips worn into the overlain and lacy gossamer of ether and midnight astral--

There is...

"The moon," Earl breathes, with a reverence and mystification that Cecil can only echo with silence. "It's... It's really _real._ "

"What even _is_ it?

"I dunno... My dad always said it was just propaganda, but..." Earl trails off, out of his depth and a bit helpless for it. But Cecil understands. He nods. He squeezes their fingers, and both pretend not to be trembling.

"Yeah."

The rooftop of the mess hall whines in muffled protest beneath the weight of two teenagers and their innocent rebellion-- it groans like a pair of mismatched bodies curling close in the desert cold, clinging to each other in much the same way that the building does to the earth, and the earth does to the sun, and the sun does to nothing at all. It spins, and they spin, and everything is tumbling, in one way or another. All things are falling. The sun, the earth, the moon, the stars, and--

Well.

Earl falls into Cecil as Cecil does him, and takes comfort in knowing that his landing, at least, will be soft.

  
**XXX**

Please come Huddle with Us on [tumblr](http://singacrossthemoon.tumblr.com/)!


	3. Lullaby

3:44 AM. A rustle; a crack. Static. Then--

"It's your turn."

"No, it's definitely your turn."

"Nooo, remember, I went last time and came back with a shirt so dirty that even _you_ didn't want to touch it."

"Dirt and puke are two different things, thank you very much," Cecil grumps into Earl's freckled ear, an arm and a leg slung lethargically over his husband's broader body. The radio host's weak eyes have remained stubbornly shut, pressed petulantly to the blade of the scoutmaster's shoulder. Earl rumbles a rejoining snort, the sound as sonorous and guttural as any Cecil might make.

"And thank _you_ very much for going to get our ornery little beast," that raw voice drones, pleasantly sardonic despite being partly smothered by a pillow. "Because it is, in fact, your turn to do it, darling."

"But you are so much better at dealing with beasts than--"

"Get," Earl grunts, bumping his butt against Cecil's stomach in a maneuver which succeeds both in silencing his husband's whines, and forcing him out of the bed. Cecil lands on the hardwood floor of the loft with a resonant thump, cursing creatively as he does.

"Dicks and a half," the radio host grumbles into the gloom, rubbing at his rear as he half-crawls, half-rolls to the nearby ladder. "Sure, just break my ass. Not like we ever use _that._ "

"We certainly won't be using it any time soon if the authorities hear about you neglecting our daughter," Earl mumbles into the bedspread, insultingly impassive. "Conjugal visits don't often include soap dropping. Go on."

Cecil responds to this with a histrionic huff of a noise, one that echoes as much as a certain infant's whimpers over the electric snapping of the monitor. But then there is a creak that is reminiscent more of steps than a crib, and soon after that a hushing which sounds more like tender whispers than woodland wuthering.

" _There, there, Lo-Lo,_ " Cecil is murmuring, undoubtedly bouncing the unhappily teething child against his hip. " _Daddy's here. Daddy's here because he loves you more than sleep, unlike your Papa._ "

In the loft, Earl rolls his eyes-- behind his weary lids, of course-- as he grabs blindly at the handset that had found a home upon his nightstand. "Ceese, these are two-way, you know," he reminds flatly, fingers pressed atop the appropriate button.

" _Of course I know. Why would I provoke you, otherwise?_ " Cecil's voice retorts, cracking from exhaustion and distance. Somewhere nearly as close to the other receiver, Laura burbles a whimper. " _C'mon, help, please. She likes your lullabies more than mine._ "

The scoutmaster groans as his husband begs, though the exasperation in the exhalation is warped by his smile. "Maybe if you didn't use Panic! At the Disco as source material..." he comments lightly, allowing the insinuation to trail off. To trail off _meaningfully,_ not sleepily, of course. 

Of course. And of course, Cecil will have none of that.

" _I will imbue my child with good taste if, broken and exhausted, it is literally the last thing I do._ "

Earl could drown in how much pretentious self-import floods from the grill of the speaker. He hums instead.

"Right. Well," the redhead yawns, at this point flopped-- supine and spread eagle-- over the full of the bed. He holds the walkie talkie to his forehead, mumbling, "I'll brush up on their discography then. In the meantime, babe, you'll have to chose a different song if you want my help."

" _A different song._ "

"Yep. One I know."

There is a long pause. Silent, sans for a baby's wet hiccup.

"... _'American Idiot'?_ "

This, at least, cracks an eye open. "Cecil."

" _What?_ " Cecil squeaks, pitched and defensive. " _It worked last week when you were out camping with your troupe!_ "

"Cecil. Oh my God."

" _Well, it's either that or Barenaked Ladies' 'One Week,' and my tongue is too tired for that noise. And she's, like,_ super _judgmental when I stumble on the lyrics. I can see the disdain in her beady little eyes_."

Earl stares. He stares dully, disbelievingly, at the ceiling, for lack of a lover to gawp at. Wow. Where to even start. 

"Jesus Christ, Cecil," Earl finally mumbles, not sure if he's laughing or crying. Maybe a little of both. Probably a little of both. The only thing he's certain of is that his face hurts-- from smiling, undoubtedly-- and that the sheer weight of this ridiculousness now lies upon his chest like a blanket, heavy and cloying. He feels... very warm. Inside and out. It is a nice feeling. The kind of feeling that glows in a heart, and on a face, and in the affectionate drone of a voice as it sighs and says, "Right, then. On the count of three. One, two--" 

" _Don't wanna be an American idiot! Don't want a nation under the new media~_ " the pair sings in oddly practice harmony, and with a few exuberant attempts at parodying guitar riffs. Earl imagines Cecil dancing around Laura's lilac-painted bedroom, bopping about beneath the glow-in-the-dark stars and strung garlands of plastic cinquefoils. He hears girlish giggles, and rumpled footie pajamas, and then finally-- _finally_ \-- the soft snuffle of snoring. 

Earl shakes his head, not sure which he finds most unbelievable: that Laura is really asleep, that Green Day had been what accomplished that, or that this is actually his life. It feels a bit like a dream. 

But no. No, it is not a dream. It is weirdly, wonderfully real... And he delights in that reality, even if dreaming does sound nice. For now, anyway. Just for now, as any dream he might have could never be as perfect as this. 

Earl, as always, looks forward to waking up. But first... 

"Come back to bed, my adorable idiot," the scoutmaster laughs softly into the radio. Then he drops the monitor-- and his arms-- to the side, leaving the latter open and ready for his ludicrous, lovable husband. 

__

  
**XXX**

Please come Huddle with Us on [tumblr](http://singacrossthemoon.tumblr.com/)!


	4. Kitten

"Earl! Your daughter is attempting murder!"

" _My_ daughter? Why is she yours when she's doing something cute, but mine when she's attempting to assert her physical prowess over the weak and defenseless?" Earl demands, with only trace amounts of sarcasm curdling his drawl. As he speaks, the scoutmaster carefully slips a paring knife back into its designated slot in the wooden block atop the kitchen counter, abandoning the start of supper in favor of tracking down his family. Until moments ago, he had been listening to his husband and their toddler playing nicely in the living room, building cities out of the not-quite-Lincoln logs that Cecil had whittled and then broadcasting to their construction's non-existent residents via a Mr. Mike toy. But then there had been a crash and a yowl, a clatter and a summoning, and here the scoutmaster is: leaning against the door jamb and drying damp hands on the front of a floral apron. 

Cecil, no longer lounging idly on the carpet, is instead standing and frantic. He glowers, Laura clutched in one arm and Khoshekh in the other. One of the two smaller creatures is whimpering a childish whine... That creature being the cat, if Laura'a delighted face and possessive, pudgy hold on a pair of black paws serves as any indication. 

"Sweetheart, no! Be nice. Khoshekh is not something stuffed!"

As if to underscore this, another infantile warble comes from the poor, not-stuffed cat. The poor, not-stuffed, _straining_ cat, who for all of Cecil's insistence is enduring as much abuse as any toy or bit of taxidermy might. His four legs hover an awkward four feet above the ground as Cecil clutches him. 

"...well? What's the matter? Did they forget the rope for their game of tug-of-war?" Earl asks lightly, arching a brow. His husband, meanwhile, is arching his arms and his back, straining like a man trying to separate particularly tenacious magnets. There is a push-pull, give-take rhythm to the little girl's assault, one that she and her victim could dance to, were either physically capable of dancing. 

But they are not. What they _are_ capable of is scrambling against their exasperated Daddy-- beating and flailing and screeching like dying things, until Cecil, tousle-haired and pink faced, looks tempted to drop them both. And yet, the man still somehow seems less annoyed by this than he does by Earl's snark. (Though, to be fair, that joke hadn't nearly been Earl's best. Still, he'd thought the one about liking pussy was a little premature. Time and place, etc.)

"She lured Khoshekh over by wiggling the mike cord and then she snagged him!" Cecil snaps, looking between his little ones with escalating concern. Their writhing makes it impossible for him to effectively change his grip; he glances desperately towards his husband, seeking out help... But instead only feels his expression sour further. "Stop that!"

"Stop what?" Earl wants to know, lifting a brow and fluttering his empty hands. His guileless expression serves merely to darken Cecil's own, even as Earl steps forward to assist in taking one of the wriggling bundles.

"Stop that thinking-thing. In your head. I can hear you praising Laura for her hunting skills! Which, I should add, she totally learned from you!"

"Of course she did. I'd give her a badge if I could. The maneuver you just described was brilliant."

"Earl, this is serious!" Cecil snaps, tightening his grip on his cat as Earl bounces their little girl against his hip. Laura mewls; Khoshehk squeaks. With only one squirming animal apiece, it is much easier to untangle their knotted limbs. "They could really hurt each other! Khoshekh is an outdoor cat! Fierce! Wild! Savage and merciless! He might claw at her or bite her on accident... And Lo-Lo could do either of those things on purpose... Or--!"

"Cecil, I think the biggest threat to Khoshekh right now is you squeezing him to death," the scoutmaster points out calmly, patiently batting Laura's straining hands back and away, back and away. She wails with wanting as Cecil glances down, belatedly realizing that his grip around Khoshekh's belly and throat is infinitely more irritating to the feline than the toddler's tackles. With an affected primness, the radio host allows the cat some room to breathe--

And nearly yelps himself when Khoshekh uses that leverage to launch himself forward, leaping atop Earl's shoulder.

"Woah--!"

The cat lands heavily. Looms pointedly. Growls low...

Then he leans down to lick lovingly at the baby's feathery tresses. His sandpaper tongue laps at freckles and the inner grooves of her ear; Laura giggles as she's cleaned, gleeful. Stilling. Her teeny fingers plait through fur and fuzz as she meows to the nuzzling Khoshekh, who in response all but flops atop her head.

Cecil watches this impassively. Earl arcs a single eyebrow. 

"Sooo... Do I get to yell at _you_ about your dangerous feral cat trying to eat my daughter now, or...?"

"Shut up."


	5. Dishes

"I'm back."

"So you are," Earl acknowledges, speaking in a murmur that cracks evenly beneath the shared weight of weariness and surprise. Lost in thought, half-hypnotized by the rhythmic clatter of the dishes, the scoutmaster realizes only when a pair of tattooed arms slip around his waist that he'd missed the soft click of an opening door, and the whisper of stocking feet over the hardwood. "Hey, there. Welcome home, baby doll."

"Oh dear." A blink. Or a flutter of lashes, anyway-- Earl can feel papery lids flurry against his nape, the sensation as striking as the nudged intrusion of a knee between his own. "My big strong woodsman looks so tense. And feels so tense! That will never do. What happened? How was your evening?" Cecil wants to know, nestling his chin more fully atop the camber of his husband's shoulder. Willowy fingertips weave loosely over the pastel print of an adorning apron; the radio host coos from his intimate perch, watching his plastic dinghy bob between the foamy cups and the sudsy pans in the kitchen sink. The question is posed with earnestness, but Earl chuckles as if at some kind of joke. The wry sound of his mirth is underscored by the squeak of pink rubber gloves, the gurgle of dirty water.

"I am afraid that supper did not meet with Lo-Lo's very high standards," the redhead drones, a single brow arching while his tone falls flat. And oh-- Only now, pressed as close as he is, can Cecil detect spatters of more than just freckles covering his husband's face. "Her palate is too sophisticated for anything that doesn't come in shades of unnatural neon orange."

"Ah. In lieu of macaroni and cheese you tried-- mmm, strained carrots?" Cecil summarizes, confirming his own suspicions with an open mouthed kiss and a lazy suckle of Earl's bared throat. His husband stiffens, startled. A gasp hitches, then breaks like a porcelain dish might: shrill and sharp. Fragile. There is some caution in the noise; the scoutmaster is careful to keep his fingers clenched around nothing more delicate than a sponge. And all the while, Cecil grins, the slick of his ivory teeth cool and possessive against the other's dinner-dappled skin. "Ooo, mashed peas, too...? So healthy, Early Bird."

He is answered by a snort, among other sounds.

"Not as healthy as it would've been if any of it had made it into her mouth," Earl rumbles, in a voice that cannot quite decide if it wants to be a sigh or a moan. Either way, the scoutmaster shifts, leaning back into the warmth of his husband's embrace and allowing Cecil to support him. And Cecil really is so supportive. "After that fiasco, I was cleaning mush off of the walls for half an hour... Then it was bath time, but she wouldn't stop fussing. I couldn't get her to sit still until I turned on--! Oh... t-turned on-- your show..."

"Mmm?" Cecil prompts, brightly encouraging. His slender hands relinquish their grip upon each other, and instead curl around a markedly different appendage. Through the worn plaid flannel of Earl's frayed sleep pants, idle fingers stroke and slide, up and down, in the same meticulous motions that one might employ to clean cutlery. The lace of lowered lashes tickle tenderly at the pale of Earl's throat, teasing him where he is especially sensitive. They are not alone in doing so. Nails flick with love and purpose at pebbling nipples, already straining beneath a threadbare top and an apron front. Pert and obvious. Clothing either hides nothing, or Earl is still simply easy to find. Probably the latter; he is a bit big for hide and seek. Big in general, really. Cecil nearly purrs, rubbing himself against his lover's shapely rear as he husks, "So did that help...?"

A buck. A burble. A clinking of porcelain, plates grinding against one another beneath the sink's bubbled surface. Hips do much the same beneath the wet ledge of the countertop. Everything is hot and sodden and--

"Y-yes..." Earl grunts, head lolling backwards and hips jerking forward. He hisses this much again, and Cecil spends a heartbeat wondering what this is in response to, but then figures it hardly matters. Who's to say it can't be in response to everything? Earl _is_ practical like that. "Oh, _yes_... Th-then i-it... H-hah, it was a struggle t-to get her into-- _God,_ Cecil!-- into her ja-jammies because... Because the kitty ones are in th-the wa-- _ah!_ \-- sh...!"

Oh yes, indeed. It is a familiar story.

"And then she couldn't choose a story... and then she wanted to hear it twice," Cecil surmises, chuckling-- huffing-- speeding up the telling of the tale as he does his cupping hands. Beneath his ministrations, Earl can do nothing more than warble and keen, mewling breathily. Silently, so that the steady static of the monitor on the nearby table is never once in danger of being drowned out, despite the liberally splashing water. "And then she snuck out of bed to find Khoshehk, and that nearly gave you an attack of nerves..."

" _Hnnnngh_ ," Earl whimpers, the sound pitched with need. And agreement. But mostly need, his bracing knees jellifying like the soggy bits of food left in the sink. Cecil savors a blot of the crusted yams that have dried atop Earl's jugular, and that's it. That's it-- the scoutmaster gasps, he _gushes_ , and the insides of his trousers are made as much a mess as the rest of him. "O- _oh_ \--! God, _fuck_ \-- Oh-- oh, Cecil, baby, I-- I..."

"You're _exhausted_ ," Cecil finishes for his lover, humming sweetly. Tenderly. The smile that peppers another series of adoring kisses down the dewing damp of Earl's temple, cheek, and shoulder is somehow both mischievous and innocent, satisfied and wanting. And that makes sense, at least, for Cecil _does_ want: he wants to go give his daughter a belated good night kiss. He wants to curl up with his husband in the cozy comforts of their loft. He wants to spend another day taking care of a rambunctious toddler, and another night working a job that he adores. But for now... "Come on, Mister Harlan-Palmer. I think it's your turn to be given a bath and be put to bed, and I want to be the one who does it."


	6. Garage

**A/N:** You know what's better than having one Cecearl headcanon? Having, lyke, twenty. Here's one with eldritch Cecil and lesser eldritch Earl. This is AU in the sense that we're just gonna pretend that Cecil and Earl were together and happy before Carlos moved to town. They're all good friends, though. Also, obligatory mpreg warning. Because eldritch anatomy. And that's the only explanation I'm gonna give for that. 

Today's bit contains homages to my favorite Marcus line and also Jeffery Cranor's twitter.

****

**XXX**

"I need it."

The announcement is forceful, certain. Articulate, and assertive, and really almost everything that Earl's startled choking is not. Cecil stares at his companion from the plush of the passenger seat, the tapered lilac tips of his impossibly long fingers clutching a Manila folder of print-outs and data to the crest of his belly. The taut bulge of that protuberance is growing larger by the day, and both Cecil and the tendrils of his Tattoos have taken to cradling it whenever possible. As a result, the radio host's once-undulant flesh appears nearly ichor-ink free, even in his favorite sleeveless summer top-- the one with the glittering green filaments woven into the decorative lace hems. Those shimmering strands shine dully in the low glow of the garage, even after a segmented door folds to a close, blocking out the more (or, arguably, the less) natural light of the sun. 

They don't need that gaseous ball of instability and lies, anyway. Not now, at least; not with the way that Cecil's eyes-- amethyst today-- are blazing, alive with cold fire. An ethereal corona the color of tanzanite has enveloped him, haloing the dark and the pale of his hair and adding a hazy lavender hue to his ivory skin. His voice is commanding; his lips are thin.

His mate is snorting.

"No, you don't," Earl corrects with a tolerant smile, his third eyelids flicking vertically over his exasperated gaze. Irises that had before been startled black and red and red and black drain of those hues as if by magic; when the iridescent curtains of those milky lids have again parted, the scoutmaster's gaze has returned to its humanoid hazel. 

And really, Earl does look _human_. He does not carry enough eldritch blood to have Tattoos-- only galaxies of shifting freckles-- and his extremities are tinged more in shades of pink than purple. But that hardly matters. He is eldritch enough. _He_ is enough. He is Cecil's chosen partner, his best friend, his life mate... that really is enough.

In, like, _general_. But not so much right now.

"Yes, I _do_ ," Cecil whines, gleaming shades of indigo like some sort of petulant, pregnant star that has fallen in the twilit gloom of the garage. The air smells pleasantly of blood-rusted saw blades and half-finished wood shop projects-- of copper and dusty pine and a crib that will soon be finished. Cecil huffs in the familiar aroma of home without really smelling it, the papers in his clutch crinkling as his distended stomach shifts against them, ballooning with each breath. "I think I know my own body, Earl. And I need it. I do. No, no--" Cecil interrupts when his lover again opens his mouth, this time as wide as his rolling eyes, "--I need it."

"Your Insatiability Period doesn't start until next month," Earl reminds, also not paying much attention to the perfumes of their abode. It's difficult to notice other scents, after all, over the harmless (but potent) stench of wafting bullshit. "We just got approval to have three whole weeks off of work."

Cecil considers this reminder. "...So what you're saying is that I'm fat and unattractive."

"No, you dork," Earl laughs, unbuckling his seat belt and leaning far enough over the armrest to nudge at the shoulder of his deadpan mate. "What I'm saying is that we are literally a minute and a half from the bedroom. You can wait."

"But I caaaan't," Cecil whimpers, the spangled polish on his nails sparking like sacrificial fires as he twitches about, squirming deeper into the upholstery. "Getting out of the car takes _effort_ and _time_ and I won't feel sexy after _waddling_."

It is just as well that they are both still seated, because it would've been quite easy to trip over the jut of Cecil's pouting bottom lip. 

"You huge baby," Earl berates, shaking his head with a long-suffered humor. He has already taken the key from the ignition; all is quiet, sans a jingled note as silvery as laughter, warm and affectionate. The metal ring of the key holder feels cool against the heat of Cecil's skin as the scoutmaster's callused hand caresses his lover's cheek.

The radio host smiles. "But I'm _your_ huge baby."

"No, you're _carrying_ my huge baby," Earl amends one last time, wearing a beam that shines as brightly as any cosmos-consuming supernova. The constellations of his freckles shift; his hand pets adoringly down Cecil's chin and throat, over his bony shoulder and flat breast, before coming to a rest atop the firm lump that is their developing baby. Five months in, six to go, but she is already beautiful. Which they had both always known, of course, but today--

Today.

Today, Carlos the scientist and his team had been able to _show_ this to the new parents-- to confirm all of their assumptions and prayers, and now the two are riding out that adrenaline high in the privacy of their Volvo Ennui, alone in the gray with each other and the grainy print of an ultrasound. 

Cecil giggles, bright eyed as he splays a palm atop Earl's. Splays it, and holds it; he presses his mate's hand against the curve of his belly until something within presses curiously back.

"I am," Cecil then agrees: quietly, sweetly. Delightedly, flushed a shade of aubergine that speaks of unadulterated domestic bliss. "I really am. And I... I--"

"You need it?" Earl finishes wryly, the greater half of his torso having followed his arm over the partition between their seats.

"Actually, I was just gonna say that I love you," Cecil corrects, bluntly mater-of-fact and not fooling anyone. Still, this doesn't stop him from cocking his head, donning an expression of exaggerated innocence as he adds, "But now that you mention it..."

Earl's snort of amusement is drowned out by the plastic creak of the seat lever being drawn backwards.


	7. Breakfast

**A/N:** It's a bird! It's a plane! No, it's a prequel to the last bit. (Also maybe you should consider getting your eyes checked.)

**XXX**

"Hey, it's nearly the equinox," Earl comments, sounding mildly surprised by this discovery as he flips through the Cat Ballou calendar pinned to the wall. Time-- being a relative commodity everywhere, but particularly so in Night Vale-- has very much been in flux, recently; it hasn't flown yet, but it _has_ been sprinting like a blogger being chased by a hatchet-wielding journalist. The scoutmaster's eyes flicker between black and scarlet and greenish-brown as he regards the denoted date, marked already by a red dot. As are the seven days which follow. Another series of the small stickers had been assembled into a shape reminiscent of an anatomically-correct heart, and the sight of this makes Earl smile into his wheat-less Flakey-Os as he adds, "Spring equinox, too. We might want to pick up extra... supplies. Since, you know. It's spring."

The cryptic comment is accompanied by a flurry of broad hands, the spattered cosmoses of his freckles shifting like seasonal stars. A conglomeration that resembles Orion's belt tumbles over the bridge of Earl's pink nose; he flushes the same sunset color that delights seamen. 

There is a correlation drawn between that mental metaphor and the present situation, of course, though Cecil is too much of a gentleman to comment on it aloud. Instead, he pushes away a half-eaten slice of gluten-free toast and folds his willowy hands. The gradient lilac of his fingertips is a lovely compliment to the lavender stain creeping up to dye his ears.

"Actually," the radio host says lightly, trying to pick his words as delicately as he plucks burnt crumbs off of the table top, "I was thinking that we could... Um... Not do that, this time."

Hmm. In retrospect, he kind of just swept those crumbs thoughtlessly off the table, didn't he? Cecil winces internally, much as Earl normally winces _externally_ to see his mate make such a mindless mess. 

But today, Earl doesn't wince. He doesn't scold, either, or sigh, or whack Cecil lightly upside the head with a rolled up copy of the daily journal. Instead, the scoutmaster stares blankly, too taken aback to do much of anything besides scoot literally backwards, regarding his companion over the remnants of their breakfast.

"But... we need condoms," Earl objects, his confusion allowing for more bluntness than either man generally prefers. "I mean, it's fine for me, being a Lesser and all, but I just thought-- well, you sometimes enjoy bottoming, especially during a heat, and you stopped taking your pills a few months ago."

"I know," Cecil says, with the pitched primness of one on the cusp of embarrassment. He shifts within his seat, the soft of his furry sleep pants hushing against the hewn wood as he points out, "I mean, I was there for all of that. Physically. Mentally. Spiritually, too, except for that one day when the subways reopened and I wanted to avoid that pileup on Main. But I still think-- that is, what I'm trying to say is... Oh, how did Carlos phrase it, again?" 

Bottom lip snagged between faintly serrated teeth, Cecil glances towards the ceiling, admiring how the golden morning has decorated the room with streamers of sunlight. He squints, staring up and out as if he might also find those foregone words hiding in the cleaving shadows or tangled up in lucent spiderwebs. And maybe that is where they'd been hiding, for the radio host is soon enunciating lowly, "'The chances of conception increase exponentially during the spring for those animals I have studied who share a similar sort of mating cycle. And I just use Head and Shoulders.'" Cecil blinks. Frowns, finally meeting Earl's stare again. "...though in retrospect, I think that last thing was in relation to a different question."

Earl gawks. Cecil nods, empathetic in his solemnity.

"I know, I could hardly believe it myself. Head and Shoulders? Surely oil drained from the skin would be a more effective conditioner than anything comprised of ground up bits of bone."

It is a joke. It really is. Well, it _mostly_ is-- but it fails completely to lighten the mood. This is not so much due to the stupidity of Cecil's pun, though, as it is to the fact that the mood needs no help to be lightened. Earl looks, almost literally, light enough to float away-- his eyes as round as balloons and his voice hiccuping on a note that would normally require liberal amounts of helium to produce. His fingertips curve around the edge of the tabletop; he clings to that ledge as if he fears a sudden loss of gravity. It is not an irrational fear-- not in Night Vale, certainly--, but Earl is not acting out of fear, right now. Far from it, even if the symptoms bear some similarities.

"Are you--? Ceese, are you suggesting that...?" the scoutmaster nearly squeaks, his freckles shooting like the stars that children make wishes on. Then he frowns slightly-- suspicious. Teasing. "...this isn't some ploy to spend more time in that scientist's lab being studied, is it?" he demands, with the wry smirk of one who knows he is pressing at buttons.

And Cecil, buttons sufficiently pressed, huffs. His Tattoos spiral about in offense, in _defense_ \-- tendrils and vines and undulant symbols swirling as much as his shadow, writhing about in flustered protest. "Noooo! Oh my God, no. I made a comment about his hair that _one time_! And even _you_ agreed."

"His hair _is_ lovely," Earl concedes, smirking around a muted mouthful of mirth as Cecil continues to flail, animatedly (and unnecessarily) protecting his honor. 

"Right?! No, wait-- not the point! The _point_ is that you love kids, and I love you, and I-- I guess my internal clock is ticking, as they say, full of gray gunk though it may be, and... And I want to hear the skittering and scattering of little feet in our house, Early Bird. I really do. I promise, I-- I want to have offspring with you. I want to have a _hundred_ of your young," Cecil insists, glowing a radiant shade of plum. The hue matches perfectly the color of his glittering eyes as he amends, only faintly sheepish, "But, you know. Maybe, like, one or two at a time...? Three, max. I mean, a hundred kids at once would be really difficult to--!"

The (many) specific difficulties of trying to raise a litter of one hundred are lost, however, somewhere in the back of Cecil's throat-- pushed back down by the eager intrusion of his mate's slender tongue. The radio host keens in delight and surprise as his lover literally scrambles across the kitchen table, kneeing away a number of dirty dishes and a drying vase of mulberry stalks as he crawls. The kiss is passionate, and sweet, and intimate, and excited, and very much the sort of kiss that implies a change in the morning's previous plans. A good change. One that no longer involves a trip to the drug store. Or even the bedroom, at this rate.

"Mmm~ Equinox isn't until this weekend, baby," Cecil reminds breathlessly, even as his Tattoos begin to lift away from his body-- pealing from pale skin in mimicry of Earl's ratty scout t-shirt. The top is tossed without further ado; it flies like so much time. Like a good time. And they _will_ be having a good time, if the redhead's grin keeps the promise that it is making.

"No harm in a head start, right?"

It is not the only thing Earl's grin promises they'll be having.

"None at all."


	8. Hide and Seek

"This just in, dear listeners! I have managed to uncover the long-sought treasure of my youth! Now! Here! After ages of being kept hidden from me! Can you believe it?"

"Goodness. Wow. Yes, so hidden," Earl drawls, in a voice as impressively devoid of emotions as Cecil's playful pronouncement is over-saturated in them. Behind the lift of his newspaper, the scoutmaster's expression is a perfect match for his tone-- as flat as the Earth is all the way round. "In a shocking twist, I put my penis in my pants, just like I do everyday. Just like I did _yesterday_ , too, when you decided it was time to run a 'surprise bi-monthly zipper check.' And you had better hope that there are no 'listeners.' We don't have the proper permits for that," Earl adds in wry afterthought, the tips of his ears glowing pink as he glances down at his affectionate husband. The radio host-- three months along and more kittenish than ever-- has sprawled himself across the plush sofa, his head in Earl's lap and his fingers braced against the pillow of those sinewy thighs. Ignoring his mate's scathing witticisms in his delight over his find, Cecil continues cheerfully nuzzling against the increasingly predominant bulge that is his lover's crotch, greeting it with all of the tender enthusiasm that one might use to welcome a long-lost companion back from the sand wastes.

"Mmm, _yesterday_ ," Cecil echoes dreamily, the teeth in his smile clattering against those that make up Earl's zipper. He tongues at that serrated mouth, thrilling at the moisture and heat that awaits him beyond its bite. "May as well have been ancient history, what with time and how it's broken and all. It feels like forever since we were last this close. And I want to be closer. I _need_ to be. I've _missed_ you, precious... God, I've missed you so much..."

"...are you talking to me or my dick?" Earl inquires incredulously, lifting his paper just enough to regard the man nestling against his loins. Pawing. Mewling. Cecil-- perhaps appropriately-- responds in a low purr. He then-- with definite _in_ appropriateness -- allows that retort to rumble pleasantly through his chest, down his spine, up his throat, in much the same way that such a sound would vibrate through a contented cat. That vibrating is either making things better or worse, and Earl can't tell which. It's confusing. It's many things. For lack of knowing how else to react, the redhead watches as his lover enthusiastically mimics a randy feline-- lazy bum swing and wanton whining and all.

"I'm not talking to anyone. We're past the point of _talking_ ," the radio host simpers, further shifting folds of ochre fabric out of the way. Out of _his_ way. Cecil Harlan-Palmer _will_ have his way. He always does.

"Oh?" Earl arches an eyebrow, finally succumbing enough to curiosity and Cecil's overeager charms to set aside sheaves of (mostly blank) newspaper. "If we're not going to talk, what are we going to do?" the scoutmaster asks lightly, innocently nonchalant. Open minded, as well as open to suggestions. Open to a number of things. Just plain open.

Cecil licks his lips, but offers no verbal reply. After all, they have a baby to think of-- and it's rude to talk with one's mouth full.

'This just in,' indeed.


	9. Fortune

"What're you doing?"

"Tarot," Cecil sing-songs, sprawled comfortably upon the vibrant puce of the living room carpet. He wriggles his bare toes, still humanoid in design but on the verge of jellifying in the summer heat. They have gained a gelatinous sheen, anyway, and his skin has begun to hint at blue-tinged transparency. The fingers clutched around a deck of oblong cards are faring no better in this weather, their tips sticking oddly to the glossy design of their backs. Cecil gives his hand a brisk shake, and succeeds in looking only faintly put-out when the detached card flicks away and makes a scrambled mess of the rest of his spread. 

Oops. Ah well. The teen shrugs his clumsiness off, trying to appear cool-- impossible though that may be in the midst of a desert summer. And while no, he does not accomplish the impossible, Earl still rewards his companion's efforts with an impressed whistle, one of his freckles shooting across his nose like a meteor. Its tumble adds a winking lightness to his hazel stare. 

"Really? Can you read my fortune?" the scout asks, lowering himself into a dignified crouch beside his lethargic friend. 

Cecil hums, nodding. Shuffling. Flipping flats again, with more histrionic import and less improvised hand-jiving than before. A series of cards are placed in a reverent diamond shape, and the boys pour over them with the soberest solemnity a pair of 18 year olds can manage.

"...Well?" Earl prompts an appropriate number of seconds later. "What does that mean?" The inquiry is accompanied by a vague gesture at the series of unfamiliar cups and wands and pentacles and swords and faces staring up at him from the ground. He may have his Divination Badge, after all, but his focus had fallen on stars. Outside of playing Uno, he isn't much good with cards. 

And Cecil knows this. He must. Earl is certain that he does, because his best friend's smile is far too casual to be innocent as he decrees, "They say you're totally gonna do me. In, like, 5 minutes."

"Th--?!"

Earl splutters. Gawks. He will admit to coloring, too-- cheeks as bright a scarlet as his untamable hair-- but he will never confess to the shrill squawk of sound that squeaks out between his teeth. 

"I-It does not!" the scout finally gasps, a disbelieving gaze flicking dizzyingly between the Tarot and his best friend. Cecil shrugs, nonchalant as you please. Or don't please. Just... _please._

"Hey, don't shoot the messenger."

"I am legally allowed to shoot anyone I want. The NRA says so."

"Well, _my cards_ say that we'll be having rampant sex in, like, 4 and a half minutes, now. If you feel like picking a fight with something, take it up with them. Or fate."

"Cecil, it is _not_ fated that we bone," Earl gripes, the fire of his flush flaring so brightly that the elder of the two can literally see heat lifting off of his freckled skin. It's not all that he will see lifting off of his freckled skin, if Cecil/the cards/fate/but mostly Cecil has its way.

"Would you bet on that?" Cecil goads, arching his pale brow. His forehead furrows beneath the weight of implied prophesies and devastations; Earl rolls his eyes, his exasperation nearly tangible as he twiddled with the fabric of his neckerchief. The decoration falls loose with a single, brisk tug.

"Yes," Earl then drones, tossing the colorful cloth aside. "I would. I would bet almost anything."

"...oh?" Cecil lightly contests, shooting a pointed glance at the buttons of Earl's uniform. The _popped_ buttons, shining as brightly as the watch on Cecil's wrist. Three minutes and fifteen seconds... "You _sure_ about that?"

Earl's steady stare is full of equal challenge as he gives his companion's damp tank top an efficient, brisk yank. 

"Yes, I am _quite_ sure that that is not what the cards say," the Lesser dryly reiterates, smarmy. Smirking. Sliding into a sticky lap, all lanky limbs and grinding hips. Cecil gasps, a hitch of a groan catching in the back of his throat as his fingers catch on the hems of his scout mate's slacks. He leans back against the ratty sofa, feeling certain parts of his anatomy harden, and other parts soften-- tendrils of shadow and ichor gaining prehensility and substance as the redhead in his arms adds, "I am just as sure, though, that we _will_ be fucking."

A heart leaps. A stomach drops. The sensations are opposite and identical and perfect. 

Ah. Well. 

"Th-the cards say that we still ha... have two minutes and thirty eight seconds before d-doing that thing..."

Earl giggles. It is, perhaps, more obscene than anything else that transpires. Cecil blushes, choking on a moan, as his lover dips low and murmurs, "Yessss...but I've always preferred making my own fate."

It's true. And while Cecil has _always_ found that an incredibly admirable quality, he thinks he has gained a deeper-- "Oh, deeper~ _Yes!_ "-- respect for it, now.


	10. Bad Day

The Harlan-Palmers keep a cat. His name is Khoshekh, and he is... Well, an excellent representative of those others of his breed. Regal and aloof, yet whiny and attention-seeking; it is not unusual for Earl to be roused from an afternoon nap by the pounce of that faux-feral furball. So when something hard and heavy drops unceremoniously atop Earl's stomach one evening in early July, his immediate reaction is to offer that weight a kitty treat.

But it is not Khoshekh who is busy burrowing himself into the wool of Earl's hand-knitted sweater. Or at least, Earl doesn't remember the cat having so predominant a chin... He cracks an eye open, only to be greeted by a shining crown of platinum hair.

Nope, definitely not Khoshekh. Khoshekh is black. All right, then. 

"Hey there," Earl greets his prostrated husband, feeling a pair of still-booted feet slip between his own. Oh dear. Well, he'll worry about dirt later. "Welcome home, baby doll." 

As he speaks, the scoutmaster quietly clear his throat, wanting to buff down the roughness of his voice; equally rough fingers card through rumpled tresses in a manner that might evoke purrs from other creatures who have made habits of face-planting themselves against his chest. However, the only sound that the man atop him makes is a whimper. That's not a particularly good sign...

"That bad, huh?" Earl prompts. Cecil wriggles a retort. It means nothing, but says enough.

The scoutmaster tuts sympathetically, loosening the arm that Cecil had inadvertently pinned to the back of the couch and draping it over his husband's lower back. Its drop jars the radio host, but not enough for Earl to mistake the sensation of a slight nod.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Another shake. The opposite way, this time-- as if Cecil were trying to wipe away memories or tears or snot. He hopes it's not snot. Or tears, for that matter. Regardless, Earl hums, understanding. 

"Did you want to make out until you feel better?"

The question is posed lightly, huskily. In the sort of tone that could be indicative of either jokes or honesty, depending on how the listener wished to interpret it. There is no wrong answer. What there _is_ is a pause-- longer than before, and more considering.

And then, once again, there is the shake of a head.

Earl chuckles, unperturbed. "I see," he says tenderly-- ironically, as he closes both eyes. His lashes flurry to a stop, but his fingers continue to flutter: up and down and side to side, patient and affectionate and lazy and safe. "Well, then. If you're looking for advice... I've always found unconsciousness an effective way to combat those temporary dissatisfactions I may have with life. Everything always looks brighter with bright eyes and bushy tails, hmm?"

There is a jerking pressure against Earl's tummy. An affirming pressure. The scoutmaster smiles.

"...so we'll make out after we wake up, then?"

And there-- at last-- a reply. Huffed and muffled, half-smothered by dyed wool, but distinguishable nonetheless: a snort, equal parts sardonic and adoring.

"Duh."


	11. Catastrophe

**A/N:** The triumphant return of Earl Harlan-Face Palmer~

**XXX**

"O-oh my God, Early Bird, _yes_...!"

" _Hngh_ \--! H-hah, Cecil, _lord!_ You're just--!"

"Nnn, _fuck_ , you make me feel so-- _oh!_ \-- good, baby~ How do you feel..?"

"I-- _Ow!_ "

"Huh?" Understandably startled, Cecil snaps his jammed eyes open-- lashes flurrying over a sheen of arousal that is very quickly becoming a glaze of confusion. Supine and spread atop the leather cushions of the sofa, the radio host stutters his eager hips to a panicked still. He then gawks unabashedly up at his husband, clearly concerned by the expression of discomfort that has drastically contorted the other's features.

"I-- oh my gosh, I'm sorry?" Cecil ventures, his rosy cheeks gaining color for a very different reason than before. Flustered in a way he hasn't been since he was 18 and a virgin, he gives his performance a mental evaluation, trying to pinpoint where he'd gone wrong. 

But then a small black face peeps over the broad of Earl's shoulder, and Cecil suddenly realizes that pins aren't the issue-- claws are.

"Darned cat," Earl grumbles, the complaint almost distractingly husky as he tries to glare at the creature perched atop his upper back. "That hurt! Where the heck did he come from? It's like he dropped out of the clear blue sky!"

"Well, unless we've somehow misplaced our ceiling, I think he must've leapt from the mantel."

The pair considers this proposal, glancing from the aforementioned mantel to their tangled heap upon the couch. Cecil then gives a low whistle, markedly impressed. "Wow! That's quite far, isn't it?" he notes with enthusiasm. 

His husband's retort contains remarkably less of that. 

"Baby, no. You're just going to encourage him."

"I am? Uh, okay-- Khoshekh, that was pathetic and you can do better. Try harder next time."

Earl-- both hands previously braced against the arm rest-- lifts one in order to smack it against his forehead. Khoshekh, noticing how he now has a free hand, begins butting against Earl's temple, whining for rubs. Which, frankly, doesn't strike Cecil as fair-- he'd gotten here first, after all. If anyone is to be getting heavily petted, it should be him.

Hoping to remind his lover of this fact, Cecil gives his pelvis a tentative roll. The lubricant and precum that had shone wetly between their bodies has dried a touch in the wake of distraction, but not so much as to hinder pleasant friction; the push-pull drag of heat and skin sends a toe-curling judder through Cecil, as well as his husband-- 

"Ouch!"

\--which sets a startled Khoshekh hissing, and clinging, and digging his talons all the deeper into the scoutmaster's unbuttoned uniform top. As one, the two men freeze-- groins grinding and chests heaving and neither entirely certain what to do with a pussy in this sort of situation.

"Hmm. This could be problematic," Earl comments wryly, still bridged over his husband and wincing whenever the cat resettles. Cecil lifts a single eyebrow, its arc a delicate match for the pout of his lips.

"I told you we should get his claws capped."

"But he spends time outdoors! He needs to be able to defend himself."

"Against _what?_ Your balls?"

A shudder-- sharp enough to be pleasurable. For some, anyway. Not so much for others. "Effing-- _gah!_ If he even _thinks_ about it, we're getting _his_ removed."

"Seems fair," Cecil assents, curling more fully around Earl. The motion jolts them closer, and the radio host mewls. It is a sound that the oblivious Khoshekh happily parrots, much as he does when Cecil "talks" to him during feeding time. Wee paws prod and poke at the bare arms intruding on his space, whacking at fingers and elbows as if this were some sort of new game. For now, Cecil plays along, flexing those taunting digits as he offers, "Want me to give him a gentle, but encouraging push? He'll land on his feet."

"Will he."

A beat.

"...Probably."

"Yeah, that's what I thought. But... I guess... if you don't mind...?" Earl hesitates, not wanting to hurt their pet, but not particularly wanting to hurt anymore, himself. And though it's hard to justify shoving a cat, well-- there are harder things to deal with at the moment. Maybe it's not an assessment that would meet with PETA's approval, but it's one that Cecil seems to agree with. Mouthing a 3-2-1, he presses Khoshekh pointedly backwards...

" _Jesus!_ "

Or tries to, anyway, but immediately stops when Earl gives a yowl to match the feline's own. Red welts rise where bitty claws had put up resistance; the cat wriggles his way back up the curve of a bare buttocks, reclaiming his perch as Earl swallows down expletives and Cecil chokes on laughter.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, it's not funny, it's not!" the radio host apologizes between hearty guffaws, accepting the brunt of a well-deserved glower and the reprimanding thwack of a palm against his hip. "Oh, I'm so sorry, my poor darling, but-- you're the canary that the cat got, Early Bird!"

"So it would seem." 

Earl sighs, a sound heavy with implied surrender. And sure enough, that's what he does: his arms give in to gravity, and he drops atop his husband without grace or ceremony. Or warning, for that matter; within the span of seconds, Cecil's belly is as much deflated of giggles as it is of oxygen. 

He wheezes. Earl grunts. The cat-- triumphant and comfortably curled upon the scoutmaster's lower back-- begins to purr.

Cheeky bastard. Those vibrations are not helping. The scoutmaster groans, a pitiful little sound that he muffles against his lover's collarbone.

"So... Now what?" 

"Hmm." Cecil considers their options as he regains his breath, carding his fingers through his husband's damp ginger locks. "Well, as you know, I'm very into science these days... And I was reading online that some people can reach orgasm through kissing alone. I can't say I've ever tested to see if I'm one of those people. Have you?" he prompts, nestling and sweet. Encouraging. Devious. 

Earl responds with a cheshire smirk that fits perfectly against Cecil's own.


	12. Wait

Cecil, as a general rule, is not the sort to be jealous of humans. They're not _bad_ \-- not as decaying sacks of organic matter go, anyway-- but they're not particularly durable. Or smart. They age really quickly, too, and he has often observed them struggling with tasks as simple as regulating their own heartbeat. Frankly, he had never understood that old fairytale trope-- the cliche of greater beings wishing to devolve and become part of mankind.

Or at least, he hadn't understood it until now.

"Two more months!" Cecil whines, pinned against the bed frame's headboard by the weight of his own distended belly. Morose and moaning, he throws an arm over the arachnid arrangement of his third through fifth eyes, his Tattoos flickering through the entire spectrum of violet light-- both visible and invisible-- as they writhe upon his skin. The (unreliable, and slightly irregular) passage of time has changed his body in more than just the obvious ways; with each day, the radio host struggles more and more to hide his Eldritch heritage. 

He doesn't _need_ to hide it, of course. Or he shouldn't feel like he needs to. But though the doily-lace patterns of his facial markings are lovely, and the gem-solid hues of his manifested Eyes are phenomenal, and really, the spindly limbs of his shadow are only _mostly_ tangible, Cecil has become increasingly shy as his pregnancy wears on. It's not that he's _embarrassed_ , per se... It's just that, even in Night Vale, a man who needs the help of his own silhouette to stay upright is a sight that earns a few stares. And at this point, that's nearly as tiring as the physical act of standing. 

"Nine months of this, and still two more to go," Cecil groans again, trying and failing to shift into a position which puts less pressure on his aching back. His Tattoos flail as much as his legs as he fights against the sheets, noisily attempting to roll onto his side. It is a herculean effort, as far as he's concerned-- the sort that he would demand a badge for, were he still a scout. And though he does eventually manage this near-impossible feat, the maneuver is less of a 'roll' and more of a 'flop.' Cecil grunts, clutching at his swollen sides as his half-smothered shadow slips free from beneath him. "Ugh. I don't think I can do it, baby..."

"Are you talking to me, or to our offspring?" Earl asks over the drone of quiet grousing, slipping a pair of reading glasses off of his nose and setting them next to his abandoned (municipally approved) novel. Already resting beside Cecil atop a severely indented mattress, the scoutmaster does not resist when gravity urges him closer to his husband. Rather, he scoots willingly nearer, pressing his freckled knuckles into the tender knots of sore muscles. His mate warbles a series of escalating mewls, pushing himself back into those ministrations.

"It doesn't matter who I'm talking to. You or our young... It's true regardless. I don't think I can do it," Cecil whispers, though some of his previous bitterness has been lost beneath a chorus of gratified grunting. "I can't move... I can't work... I can't maintain a purely mortal form. I can't wait any longer to hold her, or hold _you_ for that matter... I'm just a sentient incubator at this point, and I'm not even as high tech as the ones they have down at Night Vale Specific Hospital."

"Maybe not, but you're cuter," Earl teases, humming deeply. The resonance of that soothing sound travels through the tips of his slender fingers, adding pleasant vibrations to the massage. One leg slips over the camber of a thigh, the fleece fabric of mismatched pajama pants chafing enough to send firefly sparks of static into the air. Those rosy bursts crackle like static of a different sort-- the kind of electricity that courses through the conduits of veins. Skin tingles, fizzling beneath a kiss pressed to the back of a bare throat. It sets Cecil squirming. He keens beautifully as Earl breathes into his ear, "Moreover, you can most certainly do this. I have seen you endure much, much worse than a bit of waddling. Which is adorable, by the way. Just like everything else about you."

A snort, snuffled and muffled by a feather-down pillow. "I am not adorable," Cecil protests, albeit weakly. A pair of palms have slipped reverently over the swell of the radio host's abdomen and are now pressing tenderly against it, drawing small circles into taut flesh as the scoutmaster coos sweet nothings. A pair of lavender-tipped hands waste little time before weaving through Earl's own, guiding him to those places where the one he seeks may yet press tenderly back. "Seriously. Especially like this... I don't need a mirror to know that I am literally monstrous."

"No," Earl protests, missing neither a beat nor the chance to playfully poke at Cecil's straining bellybutton. "You, buckaroo, are precious. The both of you," he adds, trailing another series of kisses down his lover's nape. Chin comfortably nestled, Earl watches something liquid-black and serpentine squirm against the veneer of his mate's bulging stomach, the creature's outline murky beneath the milk of her father's flesh. Whatever those hazy tendrils are, they bloom outward like the petals of a dark flower, their roots nudging weakly at the cover of ivory soil. Cecil's skin ripples oddly where curiosity meets resistance... Then the darkness sinks, settling back within its cloister. 

Earl makes a sound not entirely unlike a whimper, gesticulating excitedly at the display.

"See? See?! Sweet Spire, Cecil, you two are just... Just so _neat_!" the scoutmaster croons, nuzzling love and lavishing praise as he coils his leg more tightly around his mate's own, better aligning the sprawl of their bodies. Chest to back and lips to temple, he traces his tongue along the gradient borderlines of amaranthine tribal markings. Beneath lips that now cut to the dimples of his cheek, serrated teeth click and wink, just asking to be kissed. So Earl leans up and does just that, his freckles shifting into patterns that stargazers won't be enjoying for another two months. There is beauty in anticipation, just as there is beauty in the present moment. And for the moment... "Masters of us all, Cecil-- There must be _something_ I can do to convince you of that."

Cecil considers, relaxing more fully as his mate works the final kinks out of his protesting body. "Hmm... You could make us a virgin Bloody Mary," he says, his pregnancy glow gaining neon undertones as hunger rears its ugly head. 

Earl hums, apologetic, as he nibbles new pretty markings into the back of Cecil's neck. "We're all out of Marys. How about a Paula?"

"As long as it comes with a foot rub."

"I will rub whatever you like," the scoutmaster vows, planting one last kiss to his mate's crown before climbing out of their bed, marching purposefully towards the kitchen. "Give me just a few minutes, my loves."

"Of course," Cecil grants, feeling suddenly-- and remarkably-- more patient. "Take however long you need."

He smooths a palm over his wriggling belly, and contentedly closes his eyes.


	13. Needling

**A/N:** Inspired by a conversation with and picture drawn by the incredible diatribesofcloudedsun, which can be found [here](http://singacrossthemoon.tumblr.com/post/90938692625/diatribesofcloudedsun-inspired-by). :)

**XXX**

"Cecil, if you make me drop another stitch, I will drop you to the floor."

"You will not," Cecil snorts, looking as impressed by this threat as he had by the garbage disposal's plans to unionize with the coffee maker and vacuum if they didn't start feeding it organic vegetable peels and giving it every Wednesday off. Which is to say, he does not look very impressed at all. Instead, the radio host snickers and smirks and strokes lilac knuckles over Earl's cheek, giggling as those freckled features contort further beneath his ministrations. "You wouldn't dare. I am with child."

"And I am with knitting needles," Earl grunts, only allowing half of his attention to be usurped by the one nestled atop his pajama-clad thigh. "And even if I don't know how to use them, I know how to... Uh. Use them," he finishes lamely, looking very tempted to face-palm at himself. In the back of his mind, the scoutmaster begrudgingly admits that the garbage disposal had managed to sound more ominous than him, despite primarily communicating via regurgitated pea husks in transliterated morse code. And that's a bit sad, really.

Or amusing, depending on who one asks. Cecil's grin gains dimples as he twists his head, stamping a kiss to Earl's taut belly. His own-- exposed in patches beneath a ratty nightshirt-- is equally taut, but no longer as flat; an unmistakable swell has begun to form in the cradle of his pelvis, a warm lump that attracts his Tattoos and fingers like some kind of deformed magnet. The hand that is not playfully prodding at his husband strokes over that distention, and Cecil thinks warmly of compasses and lodestones and all the things that had guided him here, to this place and point in time. It's a very romantic notion, he muses. He could share it and enjoy watching Earl flush that strange shade of magenta that Cecil finds so endearing. He could wax rhapsodic about life and the beautiful fragility of it, about the mysterious workings of fate. He could touch the red threads that his lover is trying so valiantly to weave into a blanket and tell him stories about the East, where they say that the pinkies of soul mates are bounded by such strands. 

Or he could keep all of that to himself and continue riling the other up for shits and giggles.

Yeah, that second idea sounds good.

"C'moooon," Cecil whines, dragging his finger in affectionate circles and smiling when his mate's freckles follow those orbits like a trail of stardust. "The baby won't need to be kept warm for another eight months. I, on the other hand, am here and ready to be wrapped up in you at any time. You know you want to smother me with affection."

"Half of that sentence is true," Earl grants wryly, his eyes narrowed in concentration-- well, _mostly_ concentration-- as he tries again to count his rows. But again, he fails to make it as far as twenty before Cecil starts squirming, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the jut of a hip and the cap of a knee and pretty much anywhere else that can be reached. Which, frankly, is just about _everywhere_ once his Tattoos get frisky and start to peel. They twist and they twine and Earl almost stitches one of those oily wisps into the swatch-sized blanket on accident. 

Almost on accident.

"Oh-- bugger it!" the scoutmaster curses, only realizing what had happened when that thin, prehensile wisp wiggles its way out of Earl's newest line and ruins all that he'd accomplished in the last five minutes. The fact that he doesn't say anything more colorful is an impressive feat in itself; he is really putting his Patience Badge to work today. "Cecil, sweetheart, I love you to bits, but those bits may very well be literal if you don't stop trying to distract me!"

"Distract you?" The radio host pouts at this, his eyes round and glittering like wet tanzanite. " _I'm_ not the distraction here-- that knitting is! It's eating into our couple time and taking over my lap..."

"What are you talking about? It's no where near long enough to reach _my_ lap, let alone _yours_."

"Yes, but you see, your lap is also mine," a suddenly somber Cecil explains to a very exasperated Earl. "My territory. I'll mark it if I have to."

Earl chokes at this, the sound mildly horrified. Still, it is not entirely devoid of humor. "Please don't pee on me," he drones, rolling his eyes as he does excess yarn.

Cecil's simper is as sharp as the scissors that his mate is slipping back into his craft bag. "I was thinking of using a different excretion."

"Of course you were," his lover flatly intones, because really. _Of course_ he was. "But pretty thing, at this rate our offspring will be five before I manage to finish a baby scarf. That won't do him or her any good."

"No worries! We can just use what you make as a blindfold," Cecil declares cheerily, undeterred in his mission to loop their limbs like so much string. He rolls fully onto his stomach, still pointedly nuzzling against Earl's thigh. And other places. "Or as a rope!"

"Or as a gag..."

"Mmm, only if you promise to knot me up in other ways~"

"Cecil, you are incori--! Inc... _Oh_... You are in-- _hngh_...!"

"Why, yes. Yes, I am," the radio host merrily agrees. It hardly matters with which sentence-- both are true. He wriggles one of his more slender Tattoos in a fashion that neither man can see, but both can certainly feel. Earl whimpers, keening and pitched; Cecil blushes a contended shade of aubergine, slinking like a cat into his self-proclaimed territory. Pelvis flush to one thigh and fists clutching to the other, he presses and grinds and rubs against his lover, rutting himself in a series of movements as graceful and rhythmic as those that some might use to-- say-- knit a baby blanket.

Not Earl, though. At least not today.


	14. Shock

"And this has been going on _how_ long?" Cecil asks, his voice cracking cleanly beneath the combined weight of concern and amusement. And also puberty, if Earl is to be fair.

He doesn't feel like being fair, though. Not after five hours of perpetual torture, four of which he'd spent at the mercy of his fellow Boy Scouts. It would, of course, be Earl's luck to catch something so virulent the same day that his troupe had been scheduled to venture into the sand wastes to try and earn their Zen Meditation badges. Horrified and humiliated by his condition, Earl had excused himself barely thirty minutes into their training, his patience worn as thin as his now-aching belly. He'd hated leaving, but he didn't need the contempt and irritation that would've come from being a distraction piled on top of all of the other teasing.

For once grateful that their Scoutmaster finds himself completely unable to disagree with anything on every third Tuesday, Earl had been quick to garner permission to return to the tents and work privately towards the acquisition of some other badge. One that did not involve silence and stillness, because those things were not in the cards for him, apparently.

Not that he had cards. Obviously. He'd never be so stupid as to bring contrabands on a camping trip. He's not Steve Carlsburg.

And neither, Earl had been swift to note, was the only other soul loitering about in the campsite. He had not even needed to be within sniping range to know that; he would've recognized that figure anywhere. And as always, the scout had caught himself gawking like a dead-eyed child outside of a sweets shop-- helpless to unravel the strange knot of hunger that formed in his belly the instant he'd spotted the pulled-taffy limbs and ice cream colored skin of his best friend. He had heard the girls at school throw around the term " _eye candy_ ," but Earl still doesn't know if he can use that phrase for someone he so desperately wants to put in his _mouth_.

The thought, unbidden though it'd been, had pulled blood to his cheeks and a squeak from his throat that Earl had not been entirely sure he could blame on his ailment. Not that this had stopped him from placing the fault on it anyway, as well as on the gurgling sound he'd made when Cecil had glanced up from digging through his satchel and smiled.

"Hey, Birdy!" his friend had greeted with enthusiasm, waving a hand that sparkled with emerald polish. To match their uniforms, no doubt. His eyes today clashed pleasantly with the fabric, colored the same deep purple as a desert twilight. Earl had felt his freckles shift like the sands beneath his boots as he'd hiked the remaining space between them, his heart pumping him full of conflicting emotions. Excitement, dread. Discomfort and happiness. Cecil made-- _makes_ \-- him feel both proud and terrified, lately, and it's confusing. It's so confusing. "Hey, hey! I'm finally here! Ugh, you would not _believe_ what a pain it was to get out early, even after telling station management, like, three months ago that this was happening! You'd think they'd just gotten reeducated or something, what with how forgetful they are. And do they even _need_ an intern around after all the main programs have ended? I mean, honestly. But whatever. I made it! And--"

Cecil had paused then-- not for breath; he'd never really shown a need to do that-- but because he'd finally seemed to register the look on Earl's face, and the fact that they were, in essence, alone. (Apart from those members of the Sheriff's Secret Police lurking behind a few cacti, but they hardly counted.) 

"Birdy?" he'd said again, but more worriedly this time. After all, Earl had never been one to slack off at scouting-- or anything else, for that matter. He is the disciplined one, the one often in charge of keeping _Cecil_ in line. For him to have abandoned the troupe at a time like this... "Are you okay?" 

Waiting for a response, Cecil had cocked his pretty head. Internally, the motion had Earl cursing. Externally, it had him opening his mouth, dutifully answering--

With a hiccup. Shrill, like some sort of dying animal-- pitched and plaintive and almost painfully loud. He'd then immediately slapped his hands over his mouth, mortified. Cecil, in turn, had gawked-- so startled by the sound that he'd nearly tripped while venturing closer to his friend's side. Nearly.

But he'd wound up on the ground anyway-- is on the ground now, in fact--, rolling around in his mirth as Earl squeaks and squawks at him, unable to spit out anything more reproachful due to the uncontrollable spasms of his diaphragm. The redhead rarely wishes to be more eldritch than he is, but in this moment he does envy Cecil and his complete control over his internal body parts. Well, apart from his voice, of course. But to be fair, voice is the trickiest thing for anyone to master.

Earl still doesn't feel like being fair, though. He scribbles the answer to Cecil's previous question in the sand, scowling grumpily as his best friend stands and wipes tears from his eyes with the lilac tips of his fingers.

"Oh, Earl... I'm sorry, that sucks," Cecil apologizes, with only a few lingering giggles to mar the earnestness of his sympathy. "Have you, like, done anything to try and get rid of them?"

" _Hic-hiccup-hic-hic-up,_ " Earl says flatly, because duh. Nobody takes the Boy Scouts more seriously than him; did Cecil really think he'd just up and leave a chance at a new badge without first doing everything he could think of to salvage the opportunity? In the first hour he'd held his breath for so long he'd nearly passed out; in the second, he'd emptied his canteen trying to drink from it upside down; in the third, he'd stuffed his mouth full of marshmallows in lieu of spoonable sugar; by the fourth, he'd been tempted to start asking the other boys to punch him in the stomach, just to see if that might accomplish anything. But by then they were packing up to start meditations and...

"Hmm," Cecil muses, somehow able to understand enough of Earl's twittering to piece together a picture of what had (and hadn't) happened. "Well, I don't know much about hiccups, but I did hear about this one thing that sometimes works? If you wanna try?" he offers, not looking overly convinced at how much help he might be. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and Earl is very desperate, at this point.

" _Hic-hic-hiccu--!_ \--?!"

As is Cecil, if the intensity of the lips suddenly smashed against Earl's are anything to judge by.

What? _What?_ One moment there had been a respectable gap of space between them; the next, Earl isn't quite sure where his body ends and Cecil's begins. His eyes are round-- black as night and red as the moon high above them-- but all of Cecil's details have been blurred by proximity. Or by shock. Or lust. The ginger flushes head-to-toe magenta as an eager tongue laps over the ridged roof of his mouth, then drops to swirl against his own-- to twirl as much as the freckles around his cheeks and throat. To undulate as much as their skinny hips, grinding like the soft grit beneath their feet.

Nails covered in spangled polish knot in Earl's hair, pulling closer. Lips glossy with saliva and tinged a sweet shade of berry pull away. 

"Well?"

Earl gasps into the space between them, scant though it may still be. "I..." he pants, not sure of what he wants to say. Not sure of what he can say, but also abruptly aware of the fact that he _can_ say it. _Could_ say it. Whatever "it" is. He touches his throat, as if he might be able to physically feel his voice there. "I...!"

He cannot feel his voice, of course. But he _can_ feel Cecil's as it rumbles between them-- a purr that vibrates from one chest to the next and then down the length of the willowy fingers that twine through Earl's. 

"I've heard being surprised helps," Cecil explains-- a bit unnecessarily at this point-- his expression open and innocent beneath the press of their foreheads. "I guess it worked? Are you cured?"

Earl's lashes flutter. His thoughts flutter. His pulse flutters, and so does his breath, shallow as it echoes in their ears. He swallows. And then he says-- tentative and hopeful--

"Hiccup...?" 

Cecil's grin shines like the pathway to paradise as he tugs Earl towards his tent.


	15. Blue

**A/N:** Another loving shoutout to diatribesofcloudedsun for her ideas about auras. :)

**XXX**

"Okay, but you _cannot_ tell me that Hooper and Brody wouldn't engage in a little post-explosion sex. I mean, think about it! The pumping adrenaline, the thrill of survival, the sopping wet clothes..."

"The salt and the seamen," Earl snorts, earning himself a sharp smack on the shoulder with the twisted end of a dishrag. He is man enough to accept his punishment, of course, but that doesn't stop him from wincing and whining in its aftermath, however laughingly. "What? I'm trying to be supportive, babe!" 

"You're mocking me, that's what you're doing," Cecil huffs, striking a prissy pose and wearing an even prissier pout. The plump of his bottom lip is the same soft peach as the rubber gloves he wears, and his eyes today are a perfect match for the lavender towel he holds. He narrows those eyes as he grouses, focusing on the porcelain dish he is rubbing meticulously dry. "I'll have you know that my fanfic got four hundred hits on AO3! That practically makes it literature."

"No wonder I can hear Shakespeare rolling in his grave," Earl chuckles as he scrounges in the sink, excavating a small bowl from beneath the foamy water. He squeezes another blot of absinthe-and-agony scented soap onto his cheerfully ducky-shaped sponge, cocks his head, and then amends, "Actually, that's probably just the Apache Tracker."

"Hmph. Racist jerk," Cecil automatically retorts, slipping his dish back into the cupboard of their cozy little kitchen. The sun glints brightly off of the whitewash of those cabinets, feeding the parsley that the radio host grows in vibrant patches upon the windowsill. The room is starting to look respectable again: the mahogany table has finally been cleared, and all of the red dotted dates on the Cat Ballou calendar have been crossed out by a shaky hand. The linoleum could probably do with another wash or four-- and possibly a good bleach scrub-- but through their combined efforts, the couple has already _almost_ managed to clean the whole of their house. And it had only taken a week since the end of the equinox! This had to be a new record for them, especially considering how _passionate_ this particular heat had been.

"All right, then. Name the bigger jerk," Earl says playfully, pulling a handful of cutlery out from beneath a layer of lather with the same flourish that one might expect a street magician to use when yanking a bouquet from their sleeve. If street magicians hadn't been outlawed since the 70s, of course. "The Apache Tracker... or Prince Humperdink from Princess Bride?"

"Ugh, _noooo_ ," Cecil groans, head thrown back in exasperation as Earl's lopsided grin gains teeth. "I don't wanna talk about your silly girly movies!"

"I'll let that crack slide, but only because you're drying a butcher knife right now," the scoutmaster drawls-- albeit in obvious amusement-- as he scrubs down a final plastic platter and passes it blindly along. "Okay then. How about... Steve Carlsburg versus Meet the Robinson's Bowler Hat Guy?"

His smirk is as sharp as Cecil's intake of breath. 

" _STEVE CARLSBUUUURG._ Wouldn't know a Disney movie from Pixar, that Steve! Oh, but I would rather see him go up against _Doris._ Or GLaDOS."

"You-- What? Okay, now we're media jumping, and I didn't mea... Ceece?"

Earl jerks, visibly startled, as he feels the dish he'd offered slip not only through his fingers-- but through his mate's, as well. The floral print tray lands upon the floor with a shrilly pitched clatter, skittering across the pale tiles like some sort of legless tarantula. Scattering. Gone. Third eyelids snap-- iridescent membranes instinctively synching in the wake of surprise-- as the scoutmaster twists to regard his husband, eldritch eyes wide and freckles flurrying in concern.

They are not the only thing that flurries. For all that Cecil has gone as suddenly still as stone, his lashes are fluttering madly; he gawks at nothing, petrified but for his lids. And his aura. The corona of astral that glimmers around the Higher when he is observed on Other Planes undulates as it always does-- shimmering like mirages in deserts on the cusp of twilight. But today it does not merely waver in wispy shades of indigo and damson. No, the hue that radiates from his core isn't tinged with the usual heliotrope, but... with hyacinthine. There is... 

There is blue. Barely a hint of it, only just now flickering into existence, but-- but there is _blue._

When Earl finally manages to pull his bulging eyes away from Cecil's stomach, it is to find his husband gaping openly at him, too. Flabbergasted. Speechless. Stunned. 

"C-Cecil, you..."

Cecil nods once. A mechanical motion, much like the lift of a hand to his belly. The radio host presses his rubber swathed palm to the flat of the skin there, not caring about the wetness that seeps into his sweater vest. The other arm remains lax, dripping a puddle of dirty water onto the floor as he whispers, "I-- I felt this peculiar-- that is... Early Bird, I think I..."

Their eyes meet, knowing.

And then their bodies meet, passionate. Exuberant and squealing. Within that same heartbeat, Cecil has launched himself into his mate's spreading arms, his eager legs knotting more tightly around Earl than the strings of his apron. The small of Earl's back collides painfully with the edge of the countertop, but he doesn't notice. Nor does he register the clamor of their footfalls, the nonsense in their squeaking, the clatter of the drying rack as Cecil somehow winds up atop the counter, battling the china and sink for space. Balanced precariously on the slippery ledge of the basin, thighs braced around Earl's torso and arms clinging to broad shoulders and his voice breaking beautifully, Cecil keens-- flushing a vibrant lilac as his lover peppers kisses and greetings down the taut of his stomach. 

"Hello, baby! Welcome! We've been hoping you'd arrive!" Earl croons, the joyful words muffled by skin and Tattoos and his husband's affectionate giggles. "It's just-- it's just so _neat_ that you exist now! We are so, so happy that you're here! _So_ happy! Deliriously happy! Aren't we, Cee?"

Cecil coos a reply, beaming like the moon as Earl peals himself away enough to meet his adoring gaze. Intensely violet eyes have darkened to an aubergine black-- soft and warm as velvet. 

"Yes, we are," Cecil murmurs in agreement, smoothing a hand over Earl's ruddy cheek. He spares a moment to delight in the way that his mate's freckles allow themselves to be gathered-- like stardust in his hands--, then leans in for another kiss: a deeper one, lingering. Just as desperate as before, but also more leisurely. Patient. And that's good. An eleven month pregnancy will require ample patience, after all. 

But then, they've waited this long. Cecil smiles into the kiss, taking Earl in with him as he falls with a laugh and a splash into the sudsy sink.


	16. Nightmare

"Ceese?"

The kitchen lights come on with a click like sharp teeth-- glistening and white and hungry. There is a snap, a hiss. In an instant, some invisible entity has taken a bite out of the protective skin of darkness, leaving stringy black viscera in chunks and pools. Those shadows clog the deeper corners, pushing against the windows and leaving ichor-stain streaks beyond the door jamb. Night is a messy time, and the one wincing atop a nearby chair serves as testament to that: hair mussed and ratty pajamas rumpled. His eyes are too sunken for their hue to be notable, but the bags beneath them are a pained purple-- vibrantly violet against skin as white as a mug of steaming milk.

Trembling hands cradle just such a mug, its filmy surface regarded like some sort of scrying glass. What future it reveals no one can say... Or wants to say, really, because it's 4 in the morning and no one ever really wants to say much at 4 in the morning. But "wanting" and "needing" are two different things, and the scoutmaster is well trained in recognizing the difference. And so, with a jaw-creaking yawn, Earl shuffles through the door jamb, wanders past the windows and the deep corners, and sinks bonelessly into the seat beside his husband.

"Baby, what's wrong?" the scoutmaster asks lowly, his voice graveled from sleep but soft with worry. His freckles orbit in idle mimicry of tonight's constellations-- mostly void, partly stars-- as he scrubs a callused hand through his tousled hair. "I woke up and you weren't there. I panicked until I remembered it wasn't election season."

Cecil snorts at this, recognizing it as the half-joke that it'd been. But he also recognizes his husband's legitimate concern, and it has him nodding an apology-- lower lip caught between his teeth and his long lashes quivering. 

"I'm sorry, Early Bird, I didn't... I just... I had the most horrible dream," the radio host confesses in a rasp, the words rippling oddly as they skip over the reservoir of tears in his gullet. Earl's stomach sinks like a stone; he straightens, waking more fully at the sound of a tiny splash.

"Oh, Ceese... I'm such a dunce! Did I forget it was it your turn to host the town nightmare? I'm so sorry, I--"

"No, it wasn't that," Cecil quietly interrupts, with a shake of his head that wafts tendrils of steam from his face. "It was... It was a personal nightmare. Just for me."

Earl-- not exactly mollified, but feeling slightly less guilty-- sinks further into his chair as the weight of this pronouncement is impressed upon him. "I see," he finally murmurs, elbows falling against the tabletop as he laces long, pink fingers. "I see. Well... you've already got the dairy out. We could add a little to that brew if your goal is to forget. Or you could tell me about the dream, if you want."

He offers this second idea lightly, unattached to any sort of expectation. Dreams, after all, are intimate things-- drawn from places too deep for the scoutmaster to ever hope to reach. If Cecil wishes to keep some secrets of his own, Earl would never begrudge him for it... But he would just as happily share in the burden that is his husband's subconscious. 

Cecil considers his options, gnawing a bit on his tongue, his inner cheek. His doubts. Then, despairing, he whispers:

"You never got the hiccups."

There are crickets out in the yard. They are sleeping now, but even they would've been rendered silent by this. 

"...excuse me?" Earl chokes a moment later, so utterly taken aback by the ridiculousness of this admission that he forgets even the temptation to laugh. Which is a blessing, really, for Cecil is entirely serious.

"In my dream. You never got the hiccups," he says again, the explanation gaining both speed and sorrow as the radio host pushes aside his piping drink, abandoning its warmth for that of Earl's hands. "And because you never got the hiccups, I never plucked up the courage to kiss you. And since I never kissed you, we never learned how the other really felt. Then we grew up and apart and... I just kept assuming you didn't want to ruin our friendship, so... So I started chasing after someone else and you were sad and then you _died_!"

"...oh."

The scoutmaster considers this passionate tale, pondering its horrors as he slowly blinks.

"...soooo, your dating someone else killed me?" Earl carefully paraphrases, speaking not _without_ emotion, exactly, but with an emotion that Cecil cannot quite name, at present. So he shrugs instead, morose as he admits:

"Well, _no_ , I think some weird, mute children did that. Or, maybe you didn't die so much as got dragged away...? I dunno. The details are kind of fuzzy. It was a dream, after all."

"Yes," Earl agrees gently. Pointedly. Hands clasped atop the table, he leans in enough to catch Cecil's avoidant gaze, giving his fingers a squeeze as he does do. "It was a dream."

The radio host flushes faintly, a tanzanite glow overtaking his cheeks. He is not flustered, per se, nor is he humiliated... But he does feel the need to reiterate:

"It... It felt really _real_ , that's all. And that scared me, because I... I just love you so much, baby."

"And I love you, pretty thing," Earl returns immediately, the well of his affections spilling up and over and flooding between them, nearly leaving Cecil breathless. And there is almost an irony in that, he thinks, seeing as this whole affair had begun with some sort of breathlessness. Both today, and before. At this realization, Cecil smiles-- small and involuntary, but sweet and genuine-- relaxing as his pangs of anxiety grow fewer and farther between, smothered beneath the press of an Eskimo kiss. "Don't worry, Ceese. Even if I were to be dragged away by mute children, I'd find a way back to you. Maybe I could even get the mute children to help with that."

"You are good with them," Cecil concedes with a giggle, allowing himself to be pulled into a proper hug. His lover's lanky arms are possessive, but safe. Cecil thinks of no other arms, even as he is tugged irresitably forward.

"So, can I ask... In your dream, who did you wind up dating?"

There is no tent. There is only a lap. He nestles atop it, slotted perfectly beneath the scoutmaster's chin.

"I... Um. I don't remember."

The words are spoken with great care, much like the sort shown by Earl as he lifts Cecil bodily up. The ginger huffs a laugh, blustering his husband's locks.

"That means Carlos, doesn't it?" he teases. Smirks. The expression's lopsided corners are as sharp as the sound of a hip hitting a light-switch. Blackness descends, bringing comfort.

"By the elder gods, I only complimented his hair that _once_ "

All of this brings comfort.

"Ooooooh, who has a boy-crush on the scientist...?"

And Cecil, flushed puce and flailing in protest, feels so very comforted.

"My _husband_ apparently, since he won't stop taking about him!"

The bedroom door opens. Closes again. The kitchen is empty, its details shrouded in gloom. Upon the table, a mug of milk remains untouched-- left to be rediscovered in the morning, spoiled and cold and forgotten, just like so many other bad things.


	17. Date

**A/N:** I have this headcanon that the Night Vale equivalent of Sesame Street is Don't Hug Me I'm Scared.

**XXX**

"--and in _this_ pocket is her stuffed Cthulhu plush-- she'll cry and cry if you put her to bed without it, and tear stains are almost impossible to wash out, so try to remember. There's her binkie... It's a little radioactive, so maybe you shouldn't touch it. Here-- I've packed some extra bottles of yak's blood for if she gets ornery... Um, what else, what else..."

"Uh, Cecil..."

"Oh! That's right, there are some educational videos hiding beneath her jammies. I know, I know, she's barely 6 months, but there's no time like the present to start learning about the moon! Or maybe there's just no time, period. Whether or not there's a moon is up for debate."

"Cecil--"

"And this goes without saying, I should think, but just in case-- under _no_ circumstances should you remove her bonnet. Just. Don't do it. She might try to itch at it, but ignore her little tantrums, endearing though they may be. Oh-- you won't _hear_ anything, obviously, but the shock waves might crack a few of your windows. We'll pay for those, of course. And when she's overtired her shadow gets a touch clingy, so you may have a bit of trouble detaching her after stories and song, but-- oh! I didn't tell you about stories and song! All right, I'm sure you _must_ know the tale of the Ogre and the Village of the Damned-- classic children's story, right?-- but her lullaby is in unmodified Summarian and I'm not sure how much of that you--"

"Cecil!" Earl cries in exasperation, wry mirth coloring his tone and his smile as much as Laura's drool is coloring his shoulder. She gums soundlessly on a badge that dangles from her father's chest, leaving the cloth patchy with blue-ink stains. "Babe, Carlos is a smart man. He knows _science._ He has a doctorate in it. I'm pretty sure he can handle watching a _baby_ for a few hours." 

"I... Um." Sagging noticeably beneath a backpack once intended for camping, but is now filled to bursting with baby necessities, Carlos pales and flounders and looks tempted to refute this claim. Or perhaps to revoke his offer to watch his goddaughter unsupervised. But he is, as Earl had said, a _scientist_ ; at the reminder, he heaves himself to straightness and nods once, affirming. "I do believe that all existing evidence indicates that I should be able to successfully manage Laura for the span of one date. So long as that one date is subject to no unanticipated time fluctuations or paradoxes." 

"There, you see?" the scoutmaster says soothingly, bouncing the baby gently in his arms as he regards his husband. Said husband does not seem to "see" at all, despite the wide of his amethyst eyes. Instead, he gnaws his bottom lip, twists his fingers into a near-painful knot, and shoots a series of anxious glances between his child, his lover, and his friend. The expression reminds Earl of the one that Cecil had worn when he'd tried to "liberate" a young Janice by snatching her from her stepfather's arms and scurrying up the nearest tree. There are no trees in the vicinity-- this being a lab and all-- but there is a pickup truck in the driveway. Earl holds the keys, but he would not put it past a determined Cecil to hot-wire it for the sake of escape. 

He narrows his mismatched eyes at his mate, eldritch and warning. But rather than pout or grumble or attempt to kidnap their offspring regardless, Cecil lifts an eyebrow at the scoutmaster. Earl starts a bit, confused by this. 

Then Carlos clears his throat. "Um... Scientifically speaking, it's easier to babysit if given the baby," he explains in that perpetually professional way of his. His arms are extended. Have apparently been extended for a while now. 

Oh. Earl frowns faintly, glancing down at the tiny head of the tiny life in his fairly large arms. 

"...maybe we could just--" 

" _No_ ," Cecil interrupts, playing the firm one now. He even brandishes a finger, waggling it as he might when reprimanding the dog. "No. We've been through this. We've both been through this. We need Us Time. We need a proper date. Lo-Lo will have fun with Carlos." 

"We're going to test to see how corrosive her saliva is. Then we're going to put her blood in the centrifuge to see what happens," Carlos chirps, as if to assure that they will, indeed, be having fun. Well, one of them, at least. Laura may yet be a bit young to be that into science. Staring unblinkingly into dark corners is more of her thing, at present. That and sleeping. 

"The sooner we leave, the sooner we'll get back," Cecil says, looking just as pacified by this reminder as the one who he is reminding. Earl nods, conceding the point... 

And then he concedes his daughter, albeit more begrudgingly. The effort it takes to unhook his fingers from her tiny body is almost too much to bear; the scoutmaster wilts as if relieved of some vital organ, its absence forcing him to lean heavily against his mate. Cecil winds an arm around him, supportive. Garnering support. The couple takes, and holds, and releases a deep breath over the course of a long minute, readjusting to a dynamic that feels natural, but also lacking. It's lucky, really, that they hadn't left the foyer; they'd never have found the strength to make it all the way back to the car if they'd ventured any further inside. 

"Okay. Okay. Okay," the radio host murmurs, in some odd combination of affirmation and reassurance. He nods to himself, then to Earl. To Carlos. To Laura he extends a spindly finger, giving her pudgy cheek a stroke. Should he do anything more, they'd have to start the whole goodbye process over again. Earl, somehow even _more_ distraught than his mate, cannot even allow himself that much. He waves instead, cooing nonsense and blessings in Latin. 

Okay. _Okay._

"Okay, well! Have a good time," Carlos cheers-- a trifle pointedly-- as he ushers the whimpering pair back onto the walkway. He then stands in the doorway with the baby in his arms, watching as his friends shuffle backwards towards their truck. It nearly looks a painful process; the scientist muses distantly on different methods of bonding as he waves Laura's chubby little hand, helping her bid her parents a merry goodbye. She squirms a bit, wanting to do more with her fingers; on the concrete stoop, the wisps of her shadow strain as far as they can. However she has decided to interpret what is going on around her, she seems to be growing steadily unhappier about it-- 

But before she can make her dissatisfaction known, Carlos closes the door. Bolts it, too, just in case. Whatever happens next is blocked from view, and that is a blessing. Probably. Definitely. 

Okay. 

Slipping silently into the cab of the truck, the couple reviews all that had just transpired, all that may yet transpire, all that they hope will transpire. There is a dinner reservation under their name at Gino's, a movie they'd been hoping to catch at the drive-in, and-- 

"I need it," Cecil decrees, eyes gleaming in starry bursts through the descending twilight. 

Earl wastes no time in cracking back the seat. 


	18. Intents

**A/N:** I have such a backlog of these, now... If only it didn't take me forever to do things on my phone. Oh well. Enjoy another pseudo-sequel~

**XXX**

"Oh my gods, oh my gods, oh my _gods_..."

The breathless litany falls in gasps and gushes-- a rushing hiss not unlike those sounds made by the garishly colored vinyl as it is scrambled against. Their teeth click, their boots scuffle; their feet tangle over the lip of the tent's entrance, much as their hands have tangled around each others'. Cecil's grip upon Earl is nearly tight enough to make his bones groan-- is certainly tight enough to make _Earl_ groan, with a yearning rawness that adds blots of color to his cheeks. He'd slap a palm over his mouth if his hands weren't otherwise occupied; he's never made such noises before, and it's embarrassing. 

Or it would be, anyway, had he the mental capacities to process any feeling other that pure, unadulterated pleasure.

"Sweet _Spire_ , I can't believe that-- I didn't think that you'd ever want-- _ah_!"

Earl is not quite sure which of them is whispering praises and which of them is sobbing prayers, but he does know that he loves how the words stall and stutter and slam against one another-- interrupted by the obscene smacking of hungry mouth on hungry mouth. He is salivating like the starved, and his best friend (???) is doing the same; they exchange spittle with the enthusiasm that they once had comic books and beetle husks, ropes of saliva knotting them together. Gangly limbs knot in kind, and when Cecil stumbles back atop his sleeping bag, he takes the redhead down with him.

" _Hngh_ \--!"

Cecil grunts, lovely and lurid, as the tumble aligns their bodies in ways that they've only heard tell of in the hallways at school. Thigh between thigh, pelvis to pelvis-- the inverted arc of a spine pushes them together like puzzle pieces. They slot and they scrape; Earl whimpers a sound not unlike a hiccup as he braces his elbows beside his companion's head, pink faced and panting. So pretty.

"I've always loved that color," Cecil comments dreamily, dazed from their fall and a notable lack of oxygen. 

"I've always loved _you_ ," Earl confesses in return, only to flush all the brighter upon realizing what he'd said. This time he really does cover his mouth, paling in mortification; Cecil's lashes flurry, and the space between them is so scant, and the hush so heavy, that Earl nearly thinks he can hear them as they flutter. 

But then the other scout smiles, gaining a lavender blush of his own. With gentleness, he peels the ginger's palm away from trembling lips-- he still has plans for those lips, after all-- and settles that callused hand against his hip. Squeezes it. It stays where it is planted, quivering adorably.

"Always such an Early Bird," Cecil laughs as he readjusts their limbs-- murmuring softly, and with affection-- as he weaves his arms and crooks his knees, effectively trapping his companion. "Bet you do other things early, too."

The pink tinge becomes magenta, then full-on blood-moon red. 

" _Cecil_!" 

"What? Care to prove me wrong?"

"You're _terrible_ ," Earl squeaks, flustered in ways that he rightly shouldn't be after a good few minutes of humping. But this is all so new, so sudden, so... much. Cecil giggles-- actually _giggles_ \-- as the Lesser burrows his face into the Higher's nape and tries to curl into a ball... But what with the current splay of Cecil's body, the motion becomes little more than another delicious grind of what aches. In an instant, that giggle morphs into a moan: pining and heady and wafted right into Earl's ear. Earl's responding, violent shudder makes everything better and worse in equal measure. It makes it hard to breathe. "Y-You're... H- _hah!_ You're t-teri..."

It makes other things hard, too. Very hard. Cecil gives a hiccup of surprise, his spine-- and other things-- stiffening dramatically at the press of something hard and hot through his dampening slacks. Hard and hot and _huge._ Almost disbelieving, Cecil disentangles the hand he'd coiled in tousled locks and slips it further south, coiling it instead around the outline of a straining member. He gives the shaft a gentle pull, as if expecting to find that the front of his trousers is where Earl had decided to stash a spare flashlight or a prophetic tablet stolen from city hall. But judging by the clench of Earl's thighs and the pitch of his mewls, Cecil reassess his hypothesis and decides, no. No, there's nothing in those pants except a pair of dirtying underwear and Earl. 

A lot of Earl.

For a moment, Cecil finds it difficult to swallow. He ponders other things that might be difficult to swallow. But then, he's always been one to rise to challenges. In multiple ways, in this case. And he has been told that he has a big mouth. A big mouth that he loves to use. Also a lot.

"Masters of us all-- You're _gigantic,_ " said big mouth is keening, shock having seen it fall open as wide as eager legs. Cecil bucks to punctuate this claim, lining himself up against his companion so as to more easily make a comparison; even through the chafing drape of dusty fabric, the larger of the two is obvious. With a revere bordering awe, the Higher begins working his fist again: petting the turgid length like he does the strays he always wants to take home. " _Fuck_ Earl, you deserve a badge for lugging this thing around! I mean. Seriously. If we're ever stranded in the desert and in need of a proper tent--"

"Cecil, _please_."

Oh. Oops. That was a bit much, wasn't it? 

"Sorry," the Higher winces, chewing a bruised lip as he takes his hand anyway, looking as guilty as he does when Josie catches him with those strays. His eyes and face are marching shades of aubergine, which is actually fairly impressive considering how little blood remains north of his waist. "You know me, I get motor-mouthed when I'm nervous... And dirty-mouthed. I shouldn't tease, I--"

A tongue slips between parted teeth, dragging distractingly over the ridges of his palette. The sensation is as toe-curling as it is foreign, and wow-- it is very much both of those things. It... It probably shouldn't have felt as good as it did. The staggered and inexperienced drag of Earl's groin against his own probably shouldn't have, either. But they did, they _do_ \-- and Cecil whimpers at the sheer impossible _goodness_ of it all as Earl-- always so good to him, Earl-- grips painfully to his companion's slender shoulders and rasps,

"No, no-- Cecil. _Please._ "

Oh. 

_Oh._

"Oh," Cecil pants, knowing. Needy-- equally so. Feet flat against the sandy soft of the floor, he eagerly complies with what has been asked of him. "Oh, _yes_..."

" _Nnn_ \--!"

There is more friction that finesse, more greed than grace; Cecil lifts his hips to the rhythm of his friend's shallow huffs, rutting them together in a series of artless, but passionate thrusts. Slacks susurrate; joints creak and jaws clatter. The air between them-- already sultry from a desert summer-- has gained a salty aftertaste, potent enough to cleave to the back of the tongue. And while it is not at all unusual to sample sweat off of the breezes in Night Vale, Cecil swears he can taste the difference between those cold sweats, and hot sweats, and this. "Oh-- _oh_ \-- h-hah, gods, y-yes...!"

He swears in other ways, too-- cursing beautifully as sharp nails dig into the bones of his pelvis, pierce holes into the floor of his tent... As sweet breath molests the endogenous patches behind his lilac-tipped ears... As he threads his own willowy fingers through the belt loops of Earl's slacks, using the garnered leverage to direct and press and _yank_ the other exactly where he wants him-- needs him-- yes--

"O-oh _gods_ , fuck-- Early, I--!"

"Ceese, _oh_ , Cecil-- Cecil, you're s-so beautiful, I-- _ah!_ \-- I would do anything f-for you... I r- _really_ would...!"

"Then don't stop, don't-- keep-- _yes!_ Earl, by the Spire...! H- _hah_ , I-- I can't, I _can't_ \-- I'm going to--!"

Friction creates fire-- that's one of the first things a scout learns. If one needs a little heat when camping, the solution is simple. Take two sticks and rub them together. If one does that fast and furiously enough, sparks will form. A fire will start. An inferno will erupt like a dying sun, consuming all oxygen and light in a single, earth shattering burst. Magma will pulse, muscles will pulsate, vocal cords will sing-- a boy will be left spasming as other stars wink in and out of existence, his veins full of their dust and the embers of a flame. 

A different flame.

Not unrelated to the flame whose ashes smolder in Cecil's loins, but not quite the same, either. This flame flickers within his chest, rosy and familiar. Fluttering, ever protected by the curve of his ribs. It sends up fireflies, this flame, and they are lending him their glow... One fire may have been doused, but Cecil can't help noticing how this second one has expanded, threatening to overtake his insides as Earl, too, cries out and collapses. 

They breathe together, choking on a twilight that smells hauntingly of cinnamon. Neither bothers to wonder why. 

Well, about the cinnamon. The breathing thing is pretty obvious. But then, looking back, plenty of things had been pretty obvious, hadn't they? Cecil frowns, shifting uncomfortably beneath his companion's weight. At the telling motion, Earl jerks, assuming it to be some sort of cue-- but stills again when a slender hand lands lightly atop his crown.

"Ceese...? You okay?"

"I... Um." Cecil clears his throat, palm pressed pointedly down so that Earl cannot catch the full of his expression. But he sounds, somehow, even more embarrassed than the redhead had before. He hadn't thought that possible. Earl arches a brow against the slick of his friend's throat, not entirely sure what to expect... "I'm sorry."

...but hoping that it wouldn't be that.

"You--?" In the span of a heartbeat, the scout's voice becomes suddenly very small. Minute. The size of the sand grains grinding into his kneecaps, dislodged and kicked up from their shoes. He swallows, and his throat is as dry as those granules, too. "Oh. Oh, I understand, I--"

Thighs shift around the broader boy, trapping him when he makes another valiant effort to move. The hand upon his head slips down to cradle the back of his neck; as Earl garners enough freedom to meet Cecil's gaze, he finds comfort in the other's unexpectedly horrified expression.

"What're you--? Oh-- _oh!_ No! Oh my gods, _no,_ Early Bird, that's not-- I'm not sorry about...! I-- _ugh!_ Cecil! Finish a sentence!" the flustered Higher berates himself, shaking his head and crossing his feet atop the small of Earl's back. The redhead-- still notably wary-- seems to be settling down again, but... well. Just in case. It is, in fact, important that Earl hears this. That Cecil _says_ this. So.

"So. Okay. What I meant was, I... Uh. Before. Outside. With the... When you had the hiccups," Cecil reminds, gaining coherency and mild bioluminescence as he jams his eyes and says in a rush, "I kissed you. I kissed you and I didn't ask if it was okay first. That was... Well, that was really gross of me. I was just-- I've wanted to kiss you for _such_ a long time, but I was afraid of what you might say or think so I figured... Like, if it was a surprise that might heal you, it would be fine? But really I was just being cowardly and selfish and that's a terrible excuse. So. Yeah. I'm sorry for bring a creep," he finishes with a flinch, squirming as if he plans to burrow himself into the silt like a spider. Or to allow himself to be smacked like one.

But when Cecil manages to pry open his dark, beady eyes, he doesn't find Earl looming over him in disgust. Rather, Earl looms over him with all of the affection and understanding of those kind souls who volunteer for the Teach a Spider to Read program. It feels almost ironically fairy tail, Cecil muses-- especially when his friend leans down to bump their noses, much as the elves had done to Snow White when making varied attempts to suck out her soul.

"...well," Earl then says, resting their foreheads for a moment before curling once more into Cecil's side, "I've always known you were a creep."

"Wow. Gee. Thanks."

"But," the Lesser continues over the flat of Cecil's drawl, his freckled features pinching with nerves of his own, "I _don't_ know what you... That is, what _we_... are now. Do-- do you?"

The ginger tilts his chin a bit, studying the profile of the other's somber expression. Cecil, in turn, is studying the navy ceiling of the tent, as if hoping to find an answer in the stars he cannot see. 

"Presumed knowledge is arrogance," the Higher decides after a long moment, nodding to himself in affirmation of this decreed fact. "That's what Leonard Burton says."

Earl cringes. "Oh. Um. Y-yeah. Yeah, I guess..."

"But," Cecil adds soon after, forsaking constellations blocked by vinyl in favor of admiring those that shift across the sky of Earl's face. Andromeda, Cassiopeia, Draco, Gemini... With a smirk, the Higher traces this last one with the very tip of his finger, delighting in the way he can urge those freckled figures closer. Closer. Closer-- like their noses, like their lips, as he murmurs in a husk: "But, I _am_ arrogant enough to know... that I'd really like to kiss you again, Early Bird. If-- if, you know," he tacks on in a rush, clumsy and wide eyed and earnest. "If that's okay."

The cheek cupped within his hand flares a vivid fuchsia. A freckle falls like a star. Like a granted wish.

Earl smiles.

"That is very okay."

So Cecil kisses him.


	19. French

**A/N:** Still working on that backlog...

**XXX**

"Whatcha maaaaking?"

"Food."

"What kiiiiind of food?"

"Supper food."

"Is that like Chinese food?"

"No, you dork. I'm making you French food."

"Ooo! What sort of French food?"

"The kind you eat for supper."

"Early, c'mon! What kind?"

"The edible kind?"

"Boooooo. Why won't you tell me?"

"Don't you want our anniversary dinner to be a surprise?"

"Why bother? What's happening afterwards won't be a surprise, so~"

"Well... I guess there's no real harm in telling you. It's not like you'll know what it is by its French name."

"Earl, I am offended! I'll have you know that I am incredibly well-versed in French cuisine."

"Oh really? Name three French foods."

"Fries, toast, and.... Kissing!" 

"....First of all, no. Secondly, one of those things wasn't even a food."

"Yeah, but it involves mouths and putting things into them, so I figure that's close enough."

"You-- ...are a very special person, Cecil Harlan-Palmer."

"I am also a very hungry person. So what is that called? Can I have a taste?"

"You can have one or the other."

"Taste please~"

"Right then, open wide like the Void..."

"Aah~ ...ooo! That's neat!"

"Thank you kindly. Can you guess the secret ingredient?"

"The blood of your line cook?"

"No, I'm saving her for a nice black pudding. Try again."

"Hmm, oregano?"

"I'd like to think I'm more creative than that."

"Sperm?"

"...I am not even going to dignify that with an answer."

"Well, then. Could it be... Love?"

"Actually, it's a mix of thyme and rosemary, but I like that better. So yeah. Sure. Let's say it's love."

"Pft. Jerkface."

"Hipster. Care to be my favorite person in the immediate area and set the table?"

"I already did!"

"...baby, you covered it in a silk cloth and a bunch of rose petals."

"Yup. It's ready."

"You don't say. And just what are you planning to eat without plates or cutlery?"

"Well, now-- it doesn't seem fair that I should have to tell you if you won't tell me."

"I think I can guess."

"So can I. That pot, at least, is vichyssoise, right?"

"Wow, it is! Good job, I'm impressed!"

"I told you I knew things. Do I get a gold star badge?"

"I'm fresh out of those, unfortunately. How about another little taste of something French, instead...?"

"Mmm~ That was lovely, but it wasn't food, silly."

"No, but it involved mouths and putting things into them, so I figured that was close enough."

"Hee. Touché."


	20. Ladle

**A/N:** I actually finished this one pre-50... it just took me 87 years to edit. :I Ah well. Gave me a chance to tweak the details post-canon.

**XXX**

"Cecil! No! Bad boy!"

From his seat atop the kitchen table, legs crossed and back hunched, the 'boy' in question glances up, startled. Swallowing. Or trying to, anyway, with only marginal success. Between the bulge of his cheeks and that of his eyes, he looks not unlike a child's who's been caught with a hand in the cookie jar. Which, as it so happens, is not too far from the truth. Just substitute bowl for jar and dough for cookie, and there-- that's it. That's the scene Earl has come home to.

Cecil gulps, a near-painful sound that echoes off of the linoleum. It is accompanied by a glare.

"I'm not a dog, you know," the Higher grouses lowly-- almost accusatorially-- as he takes a deep pull from a carton of orange milk. He then whines at a decibel best suited to canines as an exasperated redhead marches over and snatches away his spoon. Or, uh, utensil. "Spoon" had been a horrifyingly generous term to start with; the implement in question is actually closer in size to a ladle. A really hefty ladle. The sort that Earl might use at work. Which makes sense, seeing as the mixing bowl cradled in Cecil's lap is closer to being an industrial sized tureen... But just as the two are matched in massiveness, so too are they matched in being massively Not Okay For One Person to Use to Snack on _Cookie Dough_ I Mean _Honestly,_ Cecil, We Could Feed the Whole Town With That.

Irritated, the scoutmaster tries to take away the tureen, too, stopping only when he is _growled_ at. He relents, but his scowl deepens.

"Then why are you behaving like an animal?" Earl retorts, brandishing the ladle he'd usurped. Due in part to his vocation (and in part to growing up in Night Vale), Earl is quite skilled at turning whatever he touches into a weapon; Cecil flinches, hissing again, when he tries to claw another clump of cookie dough into his mouth and gets whacked across the back of the hand instead. "No! Get off the table! That's where we eat! ...and occasionally have sex, I _know_ ," he amends with a flush, conceding the unspoken point when Cecil cocks an eyebrow, "but come on, now! What do you think you're doing?!"

" _Eating_ ," the radio host grumps, clinging all the more possessively to his ridiculous vat of sweets. As if unconvinced that mere mortal arms will prove strong enough to withstand whatever his husband next intends to try, Cecil's Tattoos awaken, rising to assist-- twining around the metallic pot as an octopus might a jar. If octopi secreted ichor, anyway. The inky tendrils suction themselves into place with a series of lurid squelching noises, dribbling fluids that catch Earl uncharacteristically off-guard. 

"Woah, there-- Babe, don't cry...!"

Looking notably guilty, the scoutmaster relinquishes half of his hold on the spoon in favor of grasping Cecil's hand. It is a gesture that his husband seems suspicious of, at first... But when no moves are made against his food, he allows himself to be clung to. And to cling. 

Snuffling for good measure-- scrubbing his opposite wrist under his nose-- Cecil resumes his feasting with a snotty hand. Earl pulls a face, sighing in exasperation.

"Ceese, seriously," he then berates, albeit more gently this time. Hoping to finish this conversation as adults, the scoutmaster pulls out the table's two chairs-- recognizes a lost cause when he sees it-- and instead uses one of the two stools to clamber atop the counter himself. He keeps his feet upon that wooden seat, folding his elbows on top of his knees. "We've talked about this, pretty. Junk food isn't good for you or baby. Why not have a carrot, yeah?"

Cecil makes a face even more dramatically disgusted than Earl's.

"What, to stab you with?"

Right, well. He had probably been asking for that. "Okay," the scoutmaster says, with a patience that he hopes will someday get him as far as a parent as it does as a husband, "how about meat? You both need protein, and I made all of those kills for you last week. Did you finish your bear?" he asks, jabbing a thumb towards the refrigerator.

Cecil's snort is so withering that Earl has to resist the urge to double check the greens growing on the windowsill.

" _Yeah,_ " the radio host then drawls, in a tone better suited to a high school cheerleader from the 60s. He rolls his eyes, too, clicking his tongue in lieu of having gum to crack. "I _did._ Every bit of it except the Santa hat. And," he swiftly adds, jabbing his lilac-tipped finger like a man trying to make a point, either figuratively or literally, "before you ask, I ate the fire hares, too, _and_ the Soylent green bean casserole, _and_ drank all of the sacrificial blood we had stored in the freezer."

Earl stares. At his mate's finger, of course, and only at that, despite there being plenty of other things worth staring at. After all, Cecil probably wouldn't take too kindly to his husband double checking his claims by peeking into the fridge. Because trust and modesty and stuff. And frankly, given the mountain (or what might be called a mountain, if there were such a thing) of Tupperware that had mysteriously sprouted up in the sink, Earl would not be surprised to find his husband had eaten everything edible available in the house.

Well, "not surprised" in a one sense. Very surprised in others.

"Seriously?" the scoutmaster gawks, his freckles scattering like crumbs as he scrunches his nose. "What are you, part Void?"

Apparently humor is one of the few things that Cecil finds unpalatable right now. He glowers, eyes violently violet. "Careful, Harlan."

"Or what, you'll eat me, too?" Earl challenges, arching an eyebrow in invitation. It's not unheard of, exactly, for Highers to... Well. Back in the olden days, anyway. But as is often the case upon being reminded of such dated traditions, Cecil gags and rolls his eyes, disgusted.

"Meh... No. You look pretty stringy," he grunts-- with a great show of faux remorse-- as he rests his chin atop the lip of the tureen. "But I might sit on you, and that would probably hurt more."

"What? Please." Earl scoffs, scooting all the closer to his lover. Their thighs bump, then their shoulders, then-- with a twist-- their noses. "Ceese, you're two months along. You're barely showing yet."

"But I feel so faaaaat... Like I might break the table, or something." 

"Yeah, well, there's _probably_ a different reason for that, babe."

"No, but-- but-- _ugh_! It's hard to explain," the radio host whines, squirming enough to shake said table. As if for good measure, his Tattoos thrash, as well-- thumping against the mahogany surface in emphasis or tantrum. And maybe they _should_ be grateful that it doesn't break beneath them. Considering those tendrils. Considering the state of the sink. Considering a lot of things. "It's like... It's like I've swallowed a parasite. That is, I'm can _feel_ that I've eaten, right? I can feel that. But I'm still hungry. And I still feel empty."

Cecil pouts, fingers drumming anxiously. The tips of pink-spangled nails chitter against the metal pot, scrabbling like so many potential responses in the back of Earl's throat. He considers each, musingly, before saying in reminder:

"Well, that's because baby _is_ a parasite. Kind of," the scoutmaster quickly amends, frowning as he realizes the rather unflattering comparison he'd just made. But in his defense, the claim is not without some truth. "Your books talked about this. Baby is absorbing nutrients now. And soul. And essence. That's why you need to make _healthy choices_."

"For Spire's sake-- I put raisins in the dough!" Cecil protests, flipping-- as is his wont-- from morosely contemplative to overly animated in the span of a single sentence. "I am _trying_ to compromise! When you were gone, I was like, baby, your daddy is a sadistic warden who made me promise I wouldn't let you enjoy delicious food, and baby was like, if you don't feed me cookie dough in the next ten minutes I will make you suffer an extra four months of morning sickness. And baby was prepared to follow through, I swear!"

Earl arches his brow again, as somber as Cecil is histrionic. "Baby drives a hard bargain."

"Right?!" the Higher cries, too consumed by his passionate ranting to recognize sarcasm, however liberally applied. Almost desperately, Cecil waves his arms above his head and declares, "And I just-- I _really_ need baby to be full! Because until baby is full, _I_ can't feel full! And I-- I really need to feel _full_ , Early," the radio host mumbles, deflating like the soufflé that he'd apparently consumed earlier, if the pan beside the drying rack is any indication. His arms drop; his lips purse. He leans against Earl's shoulder, his eyes downcast... "I feel like I'm floating inside of myself. I don't _fit_ in me anymore. And I thought... I thought if I stuffed enough inside, then maybe I... Maybe I..."

Cecil trails off, his tone more thoughtful than depressed. He is still staring rather openly at Earl's lap. Not just his crotch-- his lap. Which also contains an absconded ladle with a long, thick, rounded handle.

Earl can practically feel the wheels in Cecil's head turning.

"Baby, we use this for cooking."

"We can get a new one."

"What, you don't think I can get hard for you anymore?" Earl teases, gratified to see amethyst patches appear of his mate's cheeks. "Have you drunken enough to forget last night?"

" _No_!" Cecil protests in a fluster, wriggling enough to scruff the floor beneath their perch. Whining, he hugs his bowl and burrows his face in the nape of Earl's neck, his breath sending freckles scattering like powdered sugar. "No, that's not-- I mean, it's just... _Ugh._ Okay. You know how, sometimes, my Tattoos get a bit frisky when you're inside of me?" the Higher says carefully, words muffled by his husband's sensitive skin.

That drum of that skin vibrates pleasantly beneath Cecil's lips as his mate hums an amused reply.

"I _may_ recall that happening a time or twelve, yes."

"Well," the radio host further explains, assuming a matter-of-fact tone that in no way belays his lingering embarrassment, "you said that it's a really, really full feeling all the way around. Buuut you don't have Tattoos, so..." 

"So this would be a compromise of sorts."

"I mean-- look at it this way," Cecil persists, as if completely unaware of the devious lilt that adds sharpness to his husband's growing leer. He really is as bad a salesman as he's claimed, Earl thinks, if he is helpless to realize when he's already made the sale. How cute. The scoutmaster's smirk widens as he indulges in a few more moments of teasing-- pushing himself off of the table entirely as Cecil petulantly reasons, "You don't want me eating cookie dough, so really, it's your responsibility to find a way to fill me up, instead. And a scoutmaster is always responsible. That's the second thing a scoutmaster is," he claims, very serious.

Earl is equally serious as he leans against the island, picking through the mess that Cecil had created while making his cookie dough. Flour, eggs, sugar, oil.

Oil.

"The second? What's the first thing?" 

"Well-endowed."

The redhead chokes on a mouthful of laughter as he grabs that slippery bottle, uncapping it as nonchalantly as a man planning to fuck his husband with a kitchen utensil is able to. Which is pretty nonchalantly, all things considered. 

"Really?"

Well. Some things considered. They'll consider the rest later.

"Oh, yes," Cecil croons, finally relinquishing his cookie dough as Earl saunters back to the table, his grin promising sweet things of a different kind. "And good at all sorts of spooning, I hope."

The table groans. It is not alone in doing so.

"Oh, don't you worry. I've got a badge and everything."


	21. DVD

"Babe, another heart appeared in the sink. I think it's hummi--"

Earl pauses in the frame of the door, caught awkwardly between the motions of walking and stopping. His torso stretches, his arms brace; his legs are hidden behind the wall, but Cecil had at least been able to hear his feet. Maybe he hadn't been paying as much attention to their clattering as he should have been, all things considered, but-- well, he'd at least managed to slam the laptop shut before his peeking husband had had a chance to peek at that. 

Unfortunately, hiding the screen doesn't exactly hide the fact that he'd been watching something. And the computer itself is still fully on display: set atop Cecil's blanketed lap as he lounges in bed. Earl arches a scarred eyebrow, glancing surreptitiously between his lover's guilty expression and his whirling laptop. 

"...are you watching porn?" the redhead asks bluntly, never one to beat around bushes. (Besides the literal kind, obviously. One never knows where scorpions might be hiding.) Cecil, in turn, chokes on a splutter, blushing all the brighter from mild asphyxiation. 

"No!" the radio host squeaks, visibly mortified... But not, it strikes Earl, for the reasons that one might normally be. After all, it's clear that he isn't lying. He really isn't watching porn. But what that means, then, is that his husband's shame stems not from being caught with sticky fingers, but from the fact that-- in Cecil's mind-- whatever show he is indulging in is somehow _worse_.

Neither can say which spreads quicker: Cecil's burning flush or Earl's knowing leer. It is fairly obvious who moves quicker, though; as one, the pair lunges for the upturned box resting near the edge of the mattress, hands straining and legs flailing. They share opposing battle cries as time (perhaps literally) staggers to a dramatic, Matrix-hommaging slow... But though Cecil has the logistical advantage, fortune favors Earl. Thank goodness he'd had a surplus of good karma stored away for such an occasion. He crows as Cecil squawks, proudly displaying his prize above his head.

"Princess Bride! I knew it! I _knew_ you enjoyed it!"

"N-no!" Cecil shrieks, despairing, leaping up in a tangle of sheets and stuffed toys and one dangerously jostling laptop. He bounces on his knees, features splotchy with embarrassment, as he grabs at the plastic case that his husband dangles teasingly out of his reach. "No, I didn't! I _don't!_ It's silly and girly!"

"Yeah, totally," Earl snorts, rolling his eyes as he allows Cecil to snatch back the box. It hardly matters who holds it now; the damage has been done. Not that this is damage. Oh no, this is _wonderful_. "That's exactly why you were watching it, alone and of your own volition, on a Thursday afternoon."

Another splutter, as frantic as eyes searching fruitlessly for an excuse. "I-- uh-- the DVD gained sentience and said it was lonely so I was just-- I--!"

"I'm sorry, what was that? I couldn't hear you over the sound of you loving Princess Bride."

"I _don't_! I _hate_ it!"

"I don't think that word means what you think it means."

"Dammit, Earl!" Cecil snaps over his husband's cackles, slamming a fist against the quilt before chucking the abused DVD case into the nightstand. He slams the drawer shut, as well, and then slams his fist into Earl's muscled shoulder-- albeit far more gently-- as his lover eagerly takes the place that the box had once held on the edge of the bed. "That is so-- ugh! It's not like the writing is _that_ great, or that the ROUSes are as cool as Jaws or anything. And all the quotes! There's nothing from Jaws so obnoxious, like-- No no _no!_ Stop laughing! Argh!" Cecil cries, scrubbing his hands through his hair as Earl hops closer and closer, poking at his husband's side with a finger while sing-songing about being Inigo Montoya. Cecil only giggles because his sides are sensitive. That's it. That's the reason. "God above, you are entirely annoying!"

"No, I'm only _mostly_ annoying. There's a difference," Earl chirps, his grin and his face equally lopsided as he leans adoringly into Cecil's lap. His dimples are as deep as his voice as he lilts, "But I _am_ entirely free for the afternoon, if you and the lonely DVD box require company. Or a bit of twu wuv."

"I'll show _you_ 'twu wuv,'" Cecil grumbles threateningly, and with the same failed import as a scathingly retorted 'your face.' Earl-- amused, like he always is by lame jokes-- reaches up to caress his scowling husband's cheek and beams, beautiful.

"You always do."

Turning pink for a very different reason, Cecil cues the movie up again.


	22. Bouquet

"Here. These are for you."

Startled, the pale-eyed boy stares openly at both his best friend and the unexpected gift he carries, clenched between freckled fingers and nearly thrust into Cecil's stomach. Dandelions, the intern notes, lip pinched between sharp teeth as his button nose scrunches. 

"Oh. Um," Cecil hesitates, expression as torn as the tuber stalks of the  
blossoms. His lashes flicker like butterflies; his hands hover and hesitate before accepting the proffered bouquet, cradling it with all of the delicacy that one might handle a vial of poison. "Yeah..."

"They mean 'happiness,'" Earl tells his friend helpfully, as if it were still common practice to randomly show up on a person's doorstep at 7:57 in the evening and express good wishes via weeds. Cecil hums in vague reply, a sound lost to the wind that rushes through the parsley growing unkempt in his front yard. "According to my scouting books, anyway. I thought... You know. After your... Well. I just figured you could use a little extra happiness, that's all."

The smaller of the two makes an equally small noise, shuffling a bit to better blockade the empty entrance to his empty house. 

"Thank you," Cecil murmurs then, his shadowed eyes downcast. Dark. Too dark even for the sunny gold of the dandelions to work any magic, despite the vibrancy of their buttery gleam. Their cloyingly sweet, yet faintly acidic scent curdles atop the boy's tongue; he feels ill for reasons he cannot fully explain as he mumbles, "It's a nice thought, I guess. But I don't... I kind of hate flowers, Earl."

The scout frowns. It is his turn to look startled, then bemused, as he glances from his friend to the blossoms and back again. 

"I know _that_ ," he retorts with a snort, almost witheringly blunt as he lifts a scarred eyebrow. He lifts a long finger, too, jabbing it at his gift like Cecil has missed something obvious. "That's why I _killed_ them, duh."

"...oh." The intern blinks. Starts, cocking his head as he regards the wilting weeds in a new light. Figuratively, at first. Then literally as the street lights pop on, spilling mildly radioactive pools of brightness upon the sidewalk. The night begins to glow. 

Cecil's smile does the same, soft and deeply earnest. 

"Thanks, Earl."


	23. Wednesday

"Good morning," Cecil chirps, plopping himself atop Earl's lap and smiling like it is, indeed, a good morning. Earl, unexpectedly trapped beneath a pair of boxer-clad thighs, lifts an eyebrow and lowers his newspaper, tossing it beside his piping hot breakfast.

"Good morning," the redhead greets in return, mildly bemused but no less cheerful for it. "Strange to see you so perky before your coffee. What's the occasion, baby doll?"

"Oh, it's just my favorite day, is all," Cecil says innocently. Affectionately. Arms coiling around his husband's shoulders, he loops his legs through the chair's and beams like the rising sun-- radiant and warm and bright enough to blind. 

Maybe that's why Earl fails to foresee what happens next.

"Really?" the curious scoutmaster poses, genuinely intrigued. "Why is toda--?!" 

But the conversational tone he'd begun with is transmogrified by a rustle of a ratty t-shirt and the susurration of silken underwear; his question is punctuated by a high pitched squeak of surprise. Earl flushes, mortified by his own reaction, as his lover giggles and moves again-- hips rolling forward with an obscene smoothness.

"C-Cecil," the redhead grinds-- through his teeth, yes, but also with other things as his husband bears down and up, down and up, "you, h- _hah_ know... Wh-what an-- an idiomatic expression is, don't you...?" 

"Hmmm, can't say that I do," Cecil grins, in a rasp as beautifully airy as the morning mist beyond the window. "I studied-- _hngh_ \-- journalism, Early. V-veeeery little English involved in _that._ But I _do_ know a-- _ah_ \-- a th-thing or two about word play..."

"And other kinds of play," Earl comments, gasping, and with as much wryness as his pounding heart-- their pounding hips-- will allow. The ginger groans, teeth catching against the threadbare blue of the scout shirt that Cecil wears; his forehead falls heavily against his lover's bony shoulder, that navy fabric well-dampened by sweat and the heat of sultry breaths. When the scoutmaster starts to chirp his pleasure, Cecil slips willowy hands between the heat of their bodies and wriggles like the worms that are the rewards of early birds. And he is very intent on making sure that his Early Bird feels rewarded.

"Well, I don't have any _badges_ b-but-- _oh_...!"

"Let's see-- _nnn_ \-- if you can e--earn one," the redhead purrs, with a lilt that ends in laughter as Cecil nips at the tip of his nose. Then he mewls, thighs tautening, as he grips his husband's hips and his husband grips something else. " _Ah!_ N-now see, this is n-no longer _punny_... I won't be able to g-give you that badge..."

" _Mmmm_ , maybe you can do something _else_ for me, instead," Cecil proposes in murmured compromise, his hungry mouth nibbling over cheek and temple and ear. He suckles on the camber of Earl's nape as if his lover's sprinkled freckles are something that can be snacked on. And oh, they haven't eaten yet, have they? No wonder they're both ravenous. Cecil moans as Earl bucks, another set of hands slipping to knot within the stringy slick that threads their bodies together. "Oh, _please,_ baby..."

" _Hnnn_ , that is the magic word..."

It is indeed. He repeats it like a spell, and _oh,_ does it feel like magic is happening. With nothing up their sleeves and a little slight of hand, the couple soon has the wooden chair rocking-- its legs scuffing loudly as their own legs twine, turgid shafts rubbing and throbbing and sending sparks through their veins. And those sparks become fires, and those fires become hazardous, and then it's all they can do to cling and cry and ride out the surging waves of bliss that leave them not hot, not cold, but pleasantly warm... Not unlike the breakfast that lies forgotten behind the slump of Cecil's back. 

Well. They say it's healthier to exercise before eating, anyway.

Still vaguely amused-- as well as many other wonderful, less vague things-- Earl coos a litany of sweet nothings into Cecil's rosy ear, bathing with him in an afterglow as lovely as the morning sunshine. Idle, spindly fingers trace lazy designs around the nobs of his husband's spine, soothing out the last of his shudders.

"Mmm," the radio host soon hums into the heady hush, curled and cuddling and contended as a cat. A kiss is pressed to Earl's chest, then his sternum, then his collar bone. Then Cecil is giggling, as pleased as he is pleasured. "God, favorite day _ever_ ~"

Earl rolls his eyes. But he also smiles, chuckling as he nestles nearer.

"Happy Hump Day to you, too, you silly thing."


	24. Nap Time

"Now, what are we going to be today...?"

The question lilts upward like a pair of eager hips, creamy thighs spread as far as the confines of the couch will allow. In response to his husband's taunting query, Cecil says nothing, his eyes jammed tight and his teeth grinding grooves into the leather of the upholstery. In this moment-- in this beautiful, blissful moment-- those teeth are not the only thing that grind... But the Higher knows that they _will_ be if he has the audacity to speak, and so he does not even allow himself to groan so loudly as the furniture.

"Good boy..."

Recognizing obedience, Earl's lengthy smirk widens: sweeping across his face like the hand that sweeps down the sultry slope of Cecil's spine. There is an obscenity in the slippery ease with which his skin slides over his shuddering mate's; it mimics the obscene ease with which his slickened cock slides inside of his lover. 

" _Oh_ \-- Oh, you are a _very_ good boy," the scoutmaster praises, his hushed voice hitching as Cecil tenses, and quivers, and continues to say nothing at all-- his lavender-tipped fingers scrabbling madly against the armrest in a litany of soundless squeaks. Earl rears back as his petting palm reaches the crest of his own pelvis; he considers the pale back of the one splayed before him, already tinged with an amethyst flush of ecstasy. Freckled hands brace against a slender waist, fingers as pointed as the earlier compliment... Then the Lesser snaps his hips in emphasis, and if expletives exist in body language, that is what Cecil responds with.

"-- _!_ " The radio host chokes upon a whimper, his Tattoos flicking and flailing like the tongue that he has so purposefully stoppered. Overexcited tendrils curdle-- they pare and they peel-- they _strain_ to twine around the Higher before he shakes himself apart-- 

" _No_ ," Earl scolds in a rasp, the rebuke as licentious as it is low. Immediately, his hands swoop from their perch to swat at errant tentacles, pushing the wisps away from what seeps and aches. It is a command that the needy Cecil is bound to obey-- literally. Long arms tangle around his torso, curling and pressing and clinging as if those lanky limbs might yet become markings of a new kind. Seeking sturdiness and sensation in equal measure, displaced Tattoos slink around Earl's toned sides, over his broad shoulders, as if hoping that they might yet claim this body as their own, as well. If they fail to do so, it won't be from lack of trying. "No, baby. You know how noisy you get if I let you do that. You're going to come from me _alone_."

Another thrust, like punctuation; Cecil wails a noiseless line of exclamation points as Earl drives against his pleasure centers-- drives in deeper-- drives him wild. Spattered dots of precome land in ellipses against the cushions, streaking into hyphens as knees shift and hips pound back.

" _Ah_ \-- oh, _fuck_ ," Earl hisses-- the waft of the curse ruffling the damped locks plastered to Cecil's temple. The Higher would echo the sentiment in return if allowed. But he is not allowed. As they are, Cecil is not even allowed to appreciate his husband's wonton features as they contort, though he is at least not denied the pleasure of his freckles. He cannot see them, mounted as he is, but _oh_ , no-- he is not denied the _pleasure_ of them. 

"--- _hngh_ ," the Higher hiccups, a weak sound that pulses within his throat as Earl's cock pulses inside of him, the swirling cosmoses of amassed freckles adding stardust to his veins. The girth of that turgid length swells, intimate and dark and Cecil can _feel_ it. Oh, he can _feel_ it, feel the start of a super nova as it tingles on the edges of his consciousness-- the sort of Big Bang that heralds both genocide and genesis. A black hole within his own, and the gravity of it all brings them helplessly, hopelessly, inseparably closer until-- 

" _Earl_ \--!" Cecil sobs, in a cry barely louder than the static of the baby monitor resting on the coffee table. His release splatters like tears and stringy spools of silk, binding them in as many ways as two souls can be bound. With a final, staggered thrust, the scoutmaster follows his husband over the edge-- then nearly over the _ledge_ , the exhausted couple collapsing in a panting, tangled, sticky heap upon the much-abused sofa.

"... _oh_..."

Cecil's chest heaves, ribs straining as if to break free of his skin. Earl heaves, too-- at least enough to pull himself out, to tie up his used condom and toss it in an adjacent bin. Then he settles himself down once more: long arms looser but no less loving as he cuddles his husband from behind. 

The Higher purrs, contented. Bleary and kittenish.

"I didn't wake her up this time," he whispers a moment later, weary but obviously proud of himself. He is rewarded by a snort. Even still, he can feel Earl nod in acknowledgment, his mate's ginger locks tickling his sensitive nape. 

There is a beat. Then another. A series of them, hearts synchronizing to one another.

"...you know," Cecil murmurs after another handful of minutes, in a tone of lightness that does nothing to belay the way his body tenses-- the way his body _always_ tenses when he is preparing to use words that he has put a great deal of forethought into. It is an unexpected, but unmistakable cue; the Lesser rouses a bit in realization, pushing himself up on an elbow as his husband says, "It'll be the autumn equinox this weekend..."

"I know. I've already spoken to Carlos," Earl reassures, hands carding gently through his lover's tousled tresses. "He said he'd be happy to watch Laura for the week."

"No, I-- well, I mean, that's good, yeah, but... What I meant was... Um..."

Earl blinks. His fingers stutter. Is Cecil blushing? "Babe...?" he prompts, patient but curious. "What is it?"

"It's... Well. Lo-Lo is turning five soon," the Higher reminds, blunt, and seemingly apropos of nothing as he stares intently at the baby monitor, a tanzanite tinge overtaking his cheeks. "And I just thought... Well, we don't want to wait _too_ long to give her a playmate, do we...?"

"Cecil...?"

It is Earl's turn to stare, now-- ears pinking like the lights above the Arby's as Cecil twists enough to look up and upon him. He smiles, affectionate. Offering. 

"I did mean it, you know. When I said I'd give you one hundred young. If that's what you want, I mean."

Another beat. Just the one-- the other has skipped. But then they both are smiling.

"...I think," Earl says, thoughtful, after a long and considerate pause, "what I want is to kiss you." 

Cecil's grin is as bright as the sickle moon as he turns, slotting himself properly into his husband's loving arms. 

"Then by all means."


	25. Ice Cream

"Ceese, you can't let her have a flavor with cockroach chips-- she'll choke!"

"Nonsense, I'll chew up the big bits for her."

"...and then what? Feed her like a bird?" 

"What, should I leave that job to you?" Cecil retorts, arching a brow in parody of his mate. The expression that the radio host mimics wobbles a bit-- literally-- as Earl cradles their small daughter, bouncing her against his hip. Callused hands tighten protectively around his little one as Cecil presses his own hands to the icy plastic of the ice cream display, leaving streaky prints like those occasionally discovered upon the bathroom mirror after showers. "Though I'd suggest spitting the post-chewed slop onto a spoon, rather than just vomiting on her."

"And _I'd_ suggest getting her something smooth and easy to eat, like vanilla or nightshade. Then we'll leave the vomiting to you, when you inevitably eat too much," Earl returns with matching dryness, nose scrunched and freckles convulsing in disgust. "I don't even think we should be here. Babies instinctively know the right balance of nutrients that their bodies need until sweets and junk are introduced into their diet. We're going to break her."

"We are not going to break her." Cecil rolls his eyes, affectionately exasperated. Nevertheless, he jabs at the tubs of Nightshade Nectarine and Soulless Sherbet Surprise when prompted by the vapid drooling of the fish-eyed drone behind the counter. He then stamps and whinnies at the appropriate decibel to indicate that they would not like any sprinkles today, thank you. Small compromises are still compromises, after all. "Baby girls cannot live on strained beans alone, my dearest. We are introducing her to new cuisine, thereby making her palate more sophisticated." 

"We are feeding her unadulterated sugar, thereby increasing her chances of becoming diabetic."

"She's American, Early Bird. Diabetes is an entitlement. A basic _right_ ," the Higher reminds flippantly. With a nod of thanks, he accepts the paper bowl of sweets that is thrust forward by a hand that does not quite match the rest of its attached body. He then tosses a few bills onto the counter, dumps his change into the UNICEF box, and plucks the two least-sentient spoons from the cup beside the register. "Let's go fight for that right. Or shovel ice cream into our faces for that right, as it were."

Earl grunts a retort that does not exactly sound enthusiastic. Still, he follows his husband to a sticky, neon orange booth near the triple-doors. Laura-- wide-eyed and observant-- chews on the tip of a periwinkle finger, her curls spiraling in and out like the curious flicker of a lizard's tongue. She tastes the air, or the atmosphere, or something in the aura of the building; pudgy digits fist around clumps of coarse uniform as she wiggles closer to Papa... But even burrowed against his chest, the girl's suspicious gaze slants towards Daddy-- tendrils undulating like uncertain snakes around the lip of the ice cream cup. They only grow bolder as Earl slides into the bench beside Cecil, and Cecil turns to face the child.

"All right, Princess," the Higher coos, leaning down to press his nose to his daughter's after Earl settles the toddler atop his lap. He slips a lavender-tipped finger beneath her chin as well, one of his twining Tattoos tickling her cheek as he scrapes a teeny bite of sherbet onto his spoon. "Are you ready to help Daddy prove Papa wrong?"

Laura blinks. Cecil takes that as an affirmative, because why not. 

"Wow. So glad your motives for doing this are pure." Earl glowers, rubbing at the round of the baby's little belly as Cecil makes a show of moving the spoon like one of the ghost cars on the high way. Laura, recognizing the gesture and the noises of her father as cues for food, opens her mouth obligingly...

"!!!"

\--then proceeds to blow a mighty raspberry, spitting droplets of colorful cream onto Cecil's startled face. Laura's tongue lolls over her pouting lip, caught between tiny teeth. Her brow crinkles; she looks mortified-- or perhaps deeply offended-- by whatever poison her caregiver had just tried to feed her. Squirming, the little girl refuses anything else from the proffered spoon, mouth moving as if she might be mewling were she physically capable.

Cecil frowns, frustrated. Earl smirks, triumphant-- massaging soothing circles into the unhappy baby's tummy as he crows, "And that's one point for strained beans-- zero for ice cream."

His husband responds with a glare, dabbing at his mussed features with a paper napkin.

"I take it back. Our daughter _is_ broken."

"Well, aren't we all, in some way?" the scoutmaster philosophizes, eyes half hooded and foot tapping idly. He grins again, the expression more cloyingly saccharine than any dessert could ever hope to be. "Now, you had a right you wanted to fight for...?"

Cecil sighs, begrudgingly digging his spoon into the hefty scoops. 

"When I vomit, it will be on you."

"Oh, _I_ don't need any help eating. Thanks though, love."


	26. Nightmare

"Nnngh, Cecil... Babe, Tattoos..."

"Mmmgh...?"

"Your Tattoos," Earl gripes groggily, wiggling his foot against the offending sensation. He has yet to open his eyes, but it wouldn't matter if he did; his feet are tangled beneath the sheets, and his face is burrowed in his husband's bared back. He kicks again, lightly, at the feel of something knotting around his ankle just tightly enough to make his leg feel fuzzy. "They're cutting into my circulation..."

The body that Earl has curled around stiffens, if slightly. There is the tautness of alarm. Cecil's voice-- deep by nature, deeper from sleep-- crackles with sudden wakefulness as he replies, "Those aren't mine."

"Hm...?"

"Those aren't my Tattoos," the Higher repeats, in a whisper that is calm and well-enunciated and full of barely-contained panic. Earl's eyes snap open as the emotion registers, then the words; as one, the pair sits up and looks down, the mattress shrieking in ways that two grown men shouldn't. In ways that they _don't._

But they do groan like the mahogany frame-- low and weary, yet still somehow supportive as their eyes fall upon a scrambling toddler. 

"Laura... Lo-Lo, sweetheart, what are you doing...?"

Concentration snapping, the three year old frowns-- staring up at her parents with eyes as round and bright as the planets that the Void has yet to eat. Despite the best efforts of her locks and limbs, her bitty rear and one pudgy leg are still dangling over the edge of the bed, weighing her down and pulling her back towards the carpet. Her face turns cornflower blue as she struggles against gravity, a few more coils of her prehensile hair tightening around the scoutmaster's shins.

"Oh, my little ray of sunshine... Now isn't the time for the sun to be awake," Cecil yawns, even as he reaches out to heft Laura properly into their bed. His Tattoos stroke at her cheeks as he cradles her to his chest, falling tiredly back against Earl. Earl, in turn, flops weakly onto his own back, snuggling around both his daughter and his husband as the former makes a vague gesture with her hands.

"A nightmare?" Cecil translates, with a sympathetic lilt that the Lesser echoes in a hum, freckled hand blindly stroking at the tendril tresses that crown his princess' head. "Oh, Lo-Lo, we all have those. They help prepare us for the lesser irrationalities and greater horrors of life."

Earl feels movement again. It jostles the bed, as well as the bodies on it.

"They are scary, aren't they, baby? But look! You were brave and survived! If you can withstand the terrors of your own unforgiving mind, then reality will be easy."

The curls braided around Earl's wrist seem to pulse. To loosen. Laura considers, pondering things that she knows and things that she does not know and things that she could not possibly know that she does not yet know. But she is three, and no one can begrudge a three year old the bliss of ignorance. Nor can they begrudge her when-- with a series of carefully crooked fingers and a hesitantly cocked head-- the little one makes a final inquiry. 

Earl chuckles, not even needing to see the question to know what had been asked.

"Just this once," the scoutmaster rumbles-- like he always does-- smiling faintly when Cecil twists enough to nestle Laura cozily between them. "But next time, let's try to earn our big girl badge, okay?"

Tucked beneath his chin, the Lesser feels his daughter nod. He feels the helices of her hair loosen, relaxing; he feels the wafting breath of Cecil's chortles become warm, deep breaths. He feels the air settle again, and the others' pulses grow steady-- their chests rising and falling, rising and falling...

He feels. He feels so much-- so safe, so loved, so content-- and he feels so _warm_ knowing that he is not alone in feeling this way. That he is not alone, period.

And that, Earl muses as he settles beside his family, and sleep settles over him, is probably the best feeling of all.


	27. In the Morning

**A/N:** I have been ~~abusing~~ making numerous homages to puckrockgaia's doe urine joke in real life, too... Oops.

**XXX**

"I'm dying..."

"Nonsense! You are literally full of more life than ever!"

"And I am literally empty of everything else... _Ulp_ \--! _Hnk_ \-- Uuugh..."

"Elder gods above. _Look_ at you. You are a vision, babe."

" _Ha._ Yeah. A v-vision out of a horror movie, maybe... And I'd prefer it if y-you _didn't_ look at me. Not when I've-- ugh-- got my head in a toile--! _Hck_ \--!"

"That's it, that's good. Let it aaall out... There we go. More room for baby, right?"

" _Hngh_ , sweet merciful _Spire_ \--! How much room could baby _need_...?! Baby is the size of _pea_! I've puked up at least half of my lower intestine...! I needed tha-- _ulp!_ "

"Aww, sweetheart... there, there, you'll grow a new one. Don't pout, pretty! Here, sit on the floor properly. No kneeling... C'mon-- good. Good, now lean back, I've got you. There we go. Goodness, you _are_ a mess, aren't you...?"

"Thanks for pointing that out."

"Well, isn't it _natural_ to ogle at beautiful things?"

"Hngh, I am _not_ beautiful. I am covered in vomit and soul sludge."

"Indeed, you are. And isn't it romantic...?!" 

"Wow. Yeah. That _would_ speak on romantic levels to a man who covets _doe urine_ , wouldn't it? Ugh, just let me go and drown myself in the u-bend..."

"No, but _seriously_ , Cecil--! Think about it! Right now, at this _very_ moment, you are reacting to the whims and wishes of something _we_ created! Us! You and me! If we weren't born, or didn't become mates... This little life here wouldn't _exist_!"

"I wouldn't be covered in my own viscera...!"

"It's the ultimate proof of our bond!"

"The u-- _ulp_ \-- ultimate proof of our bond is demanding that I intimately reacquaint myself with the toilet in th-the next 30 seconds. If you dunwanna risk getting covered in ichor, you might wanna move... Or ge-get a splash guard..."

"I will take that risk."

" _Ew_ , seriously-- You are gro-- _oh_ \-- _uggck_!"

"And you are majestic, babe."

"Ugh... I will punch you in the throat..."

"I love you, too."


	28. Program

...and that was traffic.

Well listeners, as those of you who follow the station's broadcasted smoke signals already know, today is my last day at Night Vale Community Radio. Not permanently, of course-- there is nothing permanent in this world, after all-- but for the remainder of my pregnancy, as well as a brief paternity period. Oh, sweet listeners, I wish I could have you with me for the remainder of this journey! It seems almost cruel that we should start this adventure together, only to have fate and contracted employee benefits deny you the story's end as it unfolds. But I suppose there is something to be said for anticipation... Also, Station Management has become increasingly vocal about its dissatisfaction with my frequent, baby-related tangents. So mayhaps it is time to allow everyone's hearts a chance to grow fonder with a little distance.

And there is some comfort, too, dear listeners, in knowing that even as I step away from you, I shall be happily stepping into the open arms of my loving husband. 

...Well, metaphorically, I mean. I can't... I can't actually _fit_ into his arms anymore. Frankly, I can't 'step' much anymore, either. But I suppose I won't need to do much walking after I finishing this program and drive back home! Really, I won't need to do much of _anything_ , it seems like. Earl-- diligent, organized Earl-- has already seen to all of the necessary preparations. He's prayed to the Ritual Rock in the Sand Wastes... He's polished the Birthing Blade-- the same one that my mother used to have me, as a matter of fact... He's even completed the wooden crib that I started but didn't have a chance to finish before ballooning to the size of a small house. Wasn't that sweet of him?

Now, I know there are still a few months before Earl's and my final pilgrimage into the desert, but whenever I see that little crib in the little room of our little home and think of the little life that will soon occupy such a big, big part of my own... _Oh,_ I just cannot _wait_! Sometimes, before the town's shared nightmare takes over, I find myself dreaming about it: how I'll wait upon the Ritual Rock for the stars to align properly, surrounded by cursed stones and the bloody pentacles that my mate will draw into the grit. In sleep, I am deprived of my senses as much as I am all else that tenuously ties me to this veil of reality... So I often wake up wondering how it will actually _feel_ to be sliced open. How much joy and agony will mix and meld as Earl slices our baby out of me, chanting dark magics in the old tongue. 

Obviously, we decided on a more traditional birth. I know, I know-- there are those in town who advocate letting baby claw his or her way out on their own, and I've been given excellent literature on the subject by many well-respected parents, including Cactus June and the Wallabys, but I suppose I'm just old fashioned at heart. And, you know. That Birthing Blade is a family heirloom. It'd be a shame to waste it.

Oh! On that same subject, I am now being reminded-- via a strategically placed sticky note taped to the bottom of my water bottle-- that I owe the brilliant and excellently coifed Carlos an apology. I may have told a teeeeeensy lie when he last interviewed me-- for science!-- about my baby's upcoming birth. So, if you are listening: I am ever so sorry, Carlos, and I hope I didn't irreparably ruin your studies through my dishonestly. It's just, you know. It's a kind of sensitive subject, how you plan to expel new life into the world. And I was feeling a bit shy after a chat with Old Woman Josie. Plus, I didn't want to have to tell you 'no' if you asked to watch the birth. It's not that Earl and I don't want you there, it's just... You know, personal. A bonding thing. I'm sure you understand.

And not only because you're smart, and therefore understand pretty much everything! There _is_ that, of course, but really-- Carlos is wonderfully understanding in general. Why, just the other day, I had visited his lab for a routine series of tests and check ups. And-- well-- this is embarrassing, but I completely forgot to drink anything that morning, and as a result I wound up fainting dead away on his examination table! When I finally came to, it was to the sounds of Earl growling at our scientist friend, going on about how Carlos had sworn that I wouldn't be hurt, and that no harm would ever come to the baby or I, etc, etc, etc.

Which was all very chivalrous and handsome, I have to say. I mean, I know I shouldn't encourage that sort of possessive behavior but-- well, in the spirit of keeping this a family friendly show, let's just say that the sight made me feel all warm and tingly with awe. I think it made Carlos feel much the same, albeit for less pleasant reasons. The poor man-- it's not like it's his fault that the desert is hot and I foolishly allowed myself to dehydrate.

...I assume, anyway. I'm not quite sure of science's scope of power. Or sentience. Or omnipotence.

In any case, Earl later apologized, and now I have, too. Though you may not be able to attend the birth, Carlos, please know that you will be among the first to whom we introduce the baby. Soon followed by friends, and family, and of course, the rest of you dear listeners. 

Also expect, like, a terabyte of pictures on tumblr. If you follow me there. Which you should. I post lots of great woodcarvings, and I'll probably be updating my latest fanfic while I'm confined to my bed, soooo... Follow me on AO3, too, if you're a sophisticated reader with excellent taste in Jaws fanficton.

And speaking of following me, it seems that the most attentive and freckled of Night Vale's Boy Scouts has appeared with a fresh liter of water to give me. He is thrusting the bottle into my hands-- thank you-- and is now pantomiming what is either a very innocent or very obscene gesture. I am surmising from the smack he just gave my shoulder that it was meant to be the former, and that he wants to watch me drink the water. Perhaps among other thing.

Well then. In the hopes of earning those other things, I shall take this beverage from my adorably stubborn husband. I shall also take his hand, and possibly even his badge sash. And as I take all of that, allow me to take all of you...

...to the weather.


	29. Midnight Snack

"So is this where I place my order...?"

"No, that would be at your table, like at any other restaurant," Earl drawls, his expression as carefully schooled as Cecil's fishnets have been carefully drawn. Perched atop a counter that had once been perfectly hygienic, the radio host cradles his chin in his hands and flashes a sparkling smile through sparkling nails.

"Sorry, I don't get out much. My husband practically keeps me _locked_ in the bedroom," he retorts in a purr, one knee hooked over the other and an elbow mounted upon both. The motion hikes his pencil skirt up a tantalizing inch, until Cecil is showing more skin than many of Tourniquet's meatier dishes. 

"Poor thing," Earl sympathizes with a cluck of his tongue, leaving the kitchen's entryway to man a station that suddenly has a lot more man on it. With a nonchalance that is far more affected than he would care to admit, the ginger sous chef begins polishing the utensils that he had used that day-- swiping down thick handles in idle motions that definitely are not meant to remind his unexpected guest of anything else. Of course not. Cecil is only licking his lips because he's hungry, surely. He does look so very hungry... "Your husband must not have even left a clock for you in that room. If he had, you'd know that it's nearly midnight, and that's closing time for most reputable stores." 

"Well, yes. For most _reputable_ stores."

"Reputable stores and Tourniquet."

"Really? What a shame!" the other laments, sticking out his bottom lip-- and his lower legs, for good measure. Pleather stilettos glisten upon his narrow feet, catching glossy bursts of the fluorescent light. That's not all it catches, if Earl'a sidelong glance is anything to judge by. "Does this mean I've missed my chance to sample the Chef's Surprise?"

Earl makes a grand show of pausing, of considering-- of slipping between spread thighs and placing broad palms upon the cutting board, a pristine white apron chaffing against tight swatches of black fabric. 

"Hmmm, well, I _might_ be able to heat something up for you... Provided you tip well," he teases, nose butting nose and mouth brushing mouth. They share in a giggle, a gasp-- then a groan that echoes throughout the empty kitchen, desperately ravenous. 

Cecil's leer is equal parts starving and scandalous as he savors the lingering taste in his mouth.

"Mmmm, don't you worry," he then vows, eyes glittering with obscenities and sweetness as he loops both legs and arms around his lover. "I don't just tip-- I bend aaaaall the way down." 

Oh. _Well._

Earl smirks, helping his eager husband do just that.

"Then prepare to feast like a king."


	30. Ravenous

March 20th. Dawn shatters across the sky with a violence aptly reflected by the screeching noise it makes as the sun pushes past the horizon. It crawls and it fights; luminous tendrils claw streaks of brightness into the remnants of the night, frightening it away. A bloody red bleeds through the cracks between clouds and atmosphere, dribbling stained light over desert flatness. For sailors at sea, Earl once told Cecil, such a deep burgundy serves as a warning color, particularly in the morning. 

It is a warning for people in Night Vale, too-- just for seamen of a different sort. As sunlight the color of the stickers on the Cat Ballou calendar floods the ivory carpet, Cecil clambers back atop the bed he'd so recently abandoned, graceless as a drunken deer. Though, luckily, not as prone to spewing ads about recent home vacancies.

"It's time to get up, baby," Cecil coos as he crawls, scrambling across the coverlets to nibble playfully on the tip of his husband's freckled nose. Still half asleep, Earl groans and tries to shift away-- only to realize that he's   
been successfully straddled, and that there is more than one thing that Cecil seems interested in waking 'up.' The scoutmaster makes another noise-- this one closer in sound to a guttural moan-- and gropes blindly at what traps him. He is not particularly surprised when his open palms land on something warm and smooth and definitely not pants, even though he can hear fabric chafing between their grinding groins. 

When Earl opens his eyes, it is to find his husband wearing a smile as bright as the rising sun, as well as an apron dyed a shade of red as rich as lust.

"Happy equinox," Cecil greets with a grin, its corners sharp and his undulations sharper. Earl gasps, clutching instinctively at the-- is that one of _his_ aprons? "Can I interest you in breakfast in bed, lovely...?"

Despite the very seductive (and dreamily distracting) roll of the Higher's svelte hips, Earl feels more than just the obvious body part lift. He cocks a brow, too, hazy gaze flicking left and right. 

"Breakfast, hmmm?" he purrs, not sounding overly convinced that this is Cecil's true plan. And for good reason, seeing as his husband is entirely nude beneath that apron. "And what exactly is on the menu?"

"Eggs," Cecil leers, hands falling pointedly to splay across his lower belly as he speaks. Those same hands slips lower as he adds in a chuckle, "Sausage, too."

Earl snorts. "Wow. As a sous chef, I'm not sure I can give something that trite any points for creativity in presentation..." he teases, even as he wraps his arms around his lover's back and plucks at the apron's loose bow.

The tease sets the Higher frowning, his hair mussing cutely as he is shucked free of his little costume. "Hey, I put a lot of effort into this!" he protests, albeit lovingly, whilst freeing Earl of blankets and other related coverings.

"That's not _all_ you'll be putting in, I hope...?" The scoutmaster hums a laugh of his own, slipping further down the pillows as his husband reaches up and over, giving the window shade a tug.

Cecil giggles as blackness envelopes them, light and thoughts of eating more traditional foodstuffs snuffed out.

"Of course not."


	31. Popsicle

**A/N:** Inspired by a comment made by Tisha. Thanks!

**XXX**

"Dessert time," Earl croons, popping open the freezer to the sound of a little girl clapping. "What would you like this week, baby girl?"

 _Popsicle, popsicle!_ Laura excitedly signs, dancing about on the tips of her toes. Her blue eyes are nearly as bright as summer lightning as she reaches for her treat, fingers flexing with an eagerness that requires no language to be understood. Her Papa chuckles as he hands her a raspberry flavored lolly, carefully having shucked it free of plastic. The stick is barely in her hands when she jams the whole of it into her mouth.

Very... Very deep into her mouth.

Too deep, frankly, to really be considered her mouth-- it must be rammed flat against the back of her throat. Startled, the redhead closes the freezer door and spins towards his daughter, crouching low and gesturing for her to pull the Popsicle out. 

"Laura, that's dangerous!" he scolds, trying to glare at the five-year-old but notably distracted by the way she has wrapped her fingers tightly around her left thumb. Well, that at least explains why she hasn't yet gagged herself, but... How would she-- why did she-- where would she have _learned_ such a trick? The scoutmaster shakes his head, rebuking, "That's not the right way to eat a Popsicle!"

_But this is how Daddy does it,_ the child innocently protests, cheeks hollowed around her dessert as she uses her hands to sign. Earl isn't certain if the flush on his own cheeks comes from embarrassment or irritation or both-- all he knows is that the heat of it must nearly be enough to melt the Popsicle in question.

"Daddy is wrong."

_But Daddy said it was a trick_ you'd _taught him._

...lord above.

"...excuse me, sweetheart," the scoutmaster chokes, despite being the one without anything in his mouth. Laura cocks her head, bemused and idly sucking, as she watches her father push himself back to his feet, fishing out his cellphone. He is now as red faced as he is redheaded; his expression has darkened like the sky beyond the window. Outside, the weather promises a summer storm, and if the clocks are right, Cecil will be report on that in about a minute. 

And oh, is Earl going to give Cecil something to report about.


	32. Exams

**A/N:** I am very convinced that Night Vale public schools utilize the battle royale method of testing its students.

**XXX**

"I feel... kind of silly."

"You shouldn't. You look gorgeous," Cecil gushes, capping his nail polish with an expert's flair. The tube of glittery indigo varnish is then tossed casually aside, allowing Earl's nails the metaphorical spotlight. The _literal_ spotlight had, of course, been sacrificed about an hour ago, when the pair had cut its cord to crush the Pepper twins to death. This year's final exams have been especially brutal. Only so many can graduate, after all.

Still, every student deserves a bit of a break. With the lost light's lens in shards and its filament in fragments, the backstage loft is a bit gloomier than would generally be preferred for a manicure, but Cecil has a lot of practice-- not to mention the benefit of a faint violet corona-- and so he had managed to finish his friend's nails without too much trouble.

"Really? You mean it?" Earl regards his new, dark blue tips and frowns, unconvinced. He feels less "gorgeous" and more "patriotic" as he considers them, what with the white of his skin and the red of backlash blood. And though patriotism is a good thing, well... "You don't think they clash with my hair, do you?"

"No more than the rest of you does," the second senior teases, giggling as he dodges a playful smack. "Hey! Don't shoot the messenger! Seriously. We're limited on ammo and there's still the Glee Club to deal with. But hey-- now we match! And as an unstoppable team of potential valedictorians, isn't that more important?"

Cecil grins, sharp teeth flashing silver as his own fingers sparkle. The vivid spangles of his polish glint like stars through the cloaking darkness, their gleam snuffed only by the curl of the other's hand through his own. Their painted fingers lace, twining as tightly as distant galaxies. 

"Well," Earl then shrugs, with a nonchalance that in no way masks his flush of delight, "I guess it's not _less_ important."


	33. Bedtime

"Ceese? Babe, I'm back," Earl calls, his voice as soft as the shadows that have overtaken the halls. Gray palls of darkness lay in veils and shrouds over the decorated walls, undulating gently as the scoutmaster pads down the corridor. He peeps through the door to the master bedroom, frowning when he is greeted only by the LED glow of the digital clock. Though the time itself is undoubtedly wrong, it _is_ probably as late as its numbers suggest.

How odd, then, Earl thinks, that his mate is not in bed.

"Ceese?" the Lesser says again, glancing over the jamb to the bathroom, and the spare room for good measure. He discovers little else besides linens, as gossamer as the silhouettes that have dyed them. 

"Cecil?"

Hmm. Earl has always flattered himself a fairly skilled player of hide and seek, but he is running out of rooms to check. Where could his husband be? The Lesser has already galavanted in and out of the garage, tiptoed through the kitchen, and wandered past the living room; there are few other places to look, outside of the basement and the sacrificial chambers. Well, besides-- 

"Where are y--?"

Ah. He should have known. The scoutmaster feels a tender smile overtake his mouth as he rounds a corner, his shoulder falling against the door frame to support the weight that weak knees cannot. 

" _There_ you are," Earl breathes into the silence, with an affection deeply reflected in his half-hooded eyes. Those same eyes ache with adoration as he regards his husband, fast asleep in the cradle of a wooden rocking chair. Cecil's head hangs heavily, low and lolling like those of the plush toys surrounding him. Mussed tresses glint silvery in the moonlight as a mobile on the ceiling twirls; a picture book has slipped from the shelf of the Higher's knees, pushed to the ground by the gentle protuberance of his swollen belly. He breathes steadily, evenly, at the same measured pace that he had likely been reading to before sleep overtook him. Silly boy.

"Well, then. Let's put you two to bed."

The Higher shifts, cozy. His mate sighs, contented-- if but a touch exasperated as he shuffles closer, rolling up his metaphorical sleeves. Six months in, and the scoutmaster is not sure how much longer he'll be able to heft his pregnant lover. Frankly, he's not sure how much longer Cecil will be able to heft _himself_. But those are concerns for another night. For now, Earl has just enough energy to tuck his family in, and that is all he needs.

"Good night, my loves."

This is all he needs.


	34. Play

"How's the weather?" Earl yawns, sprawled on his stomach and curled comfortably around a plump feather pillow. The jostling of the mattress had roused him, the fluids within the waterbed gurgling as Cecil broke free from a cocoon of blankets and limbs. He is now peering curiously through the window, elbows on the ledge and nose to fogging panes. 

"It's raining," he confirms a moment later, a guttural growl of thunder sending shudders through the muggy air. A flash of lightning-- not unlike the bolt that had woken Cecil in the first place-- cracks through the black sky, illuminating their bedroom in ways that the rosy lamps fail to. Still, fulguration and fluorescents flicker in similar ways as the radio host crawls back into bed, snuggling up beside his husband. "Mmm, it's a perfect day for cocoa and a movie. Don't you think?"

The scoutmaster chuckles, a sound of lethargic agreement as he abandons his pillow in favor of cuddling the other. "What did you have in mind?" 

"Hmm," Cecil hums, thoughtful, fingers idly leaping from one freckle to the next as he regards the flat screen television that they'd fixed to the wall across from their bed. What to watch, what to watch... "The Princess Bride" is still hiding in the nightstand, along with "Road to El Dorado," "Titanic," and "Jaws II." There are half a dozen other DVDs lined on the shelf beneath the drawer, eclectic in variety. He could take his pick of those; they are easy enough to reach, and any would make for a lovely, lazy morning. 

"Mm? Cecil?"

But instead, Cecil squirms just far and long enough away to snag a film that he had previously hidden beneath their bed, showing off its packaging with a smile as devious as the acts being performed on its cover. 

"I bought this new movie last Wednesday," he cheerful explains, stroking the case's spine as if in parody of how other things on the box are being stroked. And caressed. And generally fondled. "Wanna watch it with me?"

Earl blinks, suddenly feeling very awake. Amongst other things.

"Babe. That's porn."

"What?! Woah, _really_?" Gasping, Cecil makes a show out of checking, then animatedly double checking, the box that he holds in his hands. Earl levels the enthusiastically sardonic radio host a dry stare as the latter keens, "Well, _golly!_ Never let it be said that scoutmasters are unobservant!"

"Wow. You're lucky that I'm such a big fan of asses."

"Don't I know it. And it's for precisely that reason that I thought you might enjoy this film!"

"It _does_ seem full of them. Full of a _lot_ of things. Full of a lot of _full_ things," the redhead lightly observes, securitizing the brandished case with polite interest. "But doesn't it feel a bit like a waste of the day-- particularly a day like this-- to lie in bed watching a dirty movie?"

"Oh? Then what do _you_ suggest we do?" Cecil demands with an arch of his brow, giggling sweetly as Earl arches, as well-- bridging over his lover and gingerly plucking the DVD box from his hands. Their noses brush to the echo of distant roaring; rain falls in sheets that sound like white static and feel like warm fuzzies as legs knot and toes curl and lashes tickle and hearts flutter.

Earl smirks, the expression's sharpness carving a grin into Cecil's own mouth as their lips are brought pointedly together.

"How about lying in bed and _reenacting_ a dirty movie?"

The other responds with a litany of noises-- all of which sound eagerly assenting-- as the sordid film finds its way back to the floor, forgotten as the couple plots their own story, their own choreography. No curtains rise, but other things certainly do.

"And action~"


	35. Knots

**A/N:** Asmilewaiting enjoys giving me obviously dirty prompts, and I enjoy using them to write anything but smut. 8D; Oops. Ah well. Happy Xmas in August.

**XXX**

"And you're sure I can't use scissors?"

"Nope. That's cheating."

"Knives?"

"Also cheating."

"Knitting needles?"

"Cecil."

"A series of very tiny, very methodical explosions that release a plague of hungry webbing clothes moth larvae?" 

"Now you're just being silly. An explosion would kill something as delicate as larvae, wouldn't it?"

"Drat. You have a point." Cecil sighs, his expression as dark as the ribbon that he is so intensely considering. His frown deepens as he turns the wrapped parcel over and over and over again, the gift's secreted insides denied to him by a complicated series of bows and decorative tinsel. Narrowed eyes glimmer in the phantasmagoric glow that halos their tree, though the radio host's illuminated stare shines less with tidings of cheer and more with half-crazed determination. 

Lounging lazily upon the adjacent leather sofa, Earl rolls his eyes. Hunched upon the floor like some holiday-themed incarnation of Golem, Cecil shifts. He levels the present he cradles a challenging glare that he mutely dares it to return. 

It doesn't, of course. 

Because it's a box. 

"You might break something if you don't stop shaking it like that," the scoutmaster warns with an unconcerned yawn, smirking a bit as he snuggles into the plush of the couch. Cecil responds with a sharp glower. Well, figuratively sharp. Not sharp in any way that might help him, unfortunately. And so the ribbon remains fully in tact, despite how his patience wears thinner and thinner.

"C'mon, Early Bird! Can't I use a little something just to get started? A can opener? A shark tooth? A shank that I carve out of compressed newspaper?"

A snort. Entertained, yes, but also dismissive.

"No. You know the rules. If you want to open your gift before the 25th, you have to solve my knots on your own. That means no assistance from sharp implements."

"What about--"

"Nor from blunt instruments that you hone on your grinder."

"Well then--"

"Nor from dull instruments that you supplement with tenacity."

"Hngh! Not fair...! Now I regret earning that Knotting Badge for _you,_ rather than a Knots Badge for _myself!_ "

"If wishes were horses we could name that one Buttercup and ride it during the firefighters' biweekly parade. As it is, you'll just have to wait for my help on Christmas, won't you?"

"Uuuugh... _No--!_ Nooo, this year, I'm gonna get it! I'm gonna do it!"

"Best of luck to you, then. Now stop chewing on the ribbon. That is also not allowed."

" _God dammit!_ "

"Ah yes. There's that Christmas spirit."

"Shush, you. Freaking--! _Ugh!_ Emmanuel is going to be the only one coming this month if you don't let me cheat."

"Mmm, then I guess we have a number of silent nights ahead of us, don't we? Or..."

"Or?"

"Or you _could_ work your way up to opening your gift by practicing on a series of simpler knots."

"For example?"

"Hmmm, say, this one on my bathrobe."

"Or your sleep pants?"

"Or there."

"This is sounding suspiciously like another Knotting Badge, and not the Knots one that I want."

"Oh? Is that what you _really_ want for Christmas, then?"

"Pft. What are you, Santa?"

"If I say yes, will you sit on my lap?"

"Ew. I will if you say no."

"Santa? Who is this Santa? Never heard of the man before."

"Silly boy..."

Wrapping paper and velvet ties rustle sweetly over carpeting as they are pushed beneath the boughs of a pine. The sofa groans; fleece slacks chafe; slender fingers pluck at a loosely looped terry cloth belt, taking notable delight in the way that this knot, at least, gives beneath his ministrations.

"...though it seems unfair that I should be giving you what you want, even as you deny me."

"Well. It _is_ the season for giving."

"For giving me shit, you mean."

"Did I ever say otherwise?"

"Dork."

"Loser."

"A _sore_ loser, I hope." Cecil grins, twining their fingers. 

Earl chuckles, leaning up to twine other things, too.

"Is there any other kind worth being?"


	36. Candlelight Dinner

"Cecil! I asked you to cut the broccoli for supper tonight! Did you seriously forget _again_?!" 

Earl makes a sound suspiciously like a growl as he tromps through the small kitchen, dropping aprons and tossing utensils with uncharacteristic vigor. Pots clatter and lids clang as the redhead tears through the defenseless room, fuming all the more vocally as he notes, "You didn't put the roast in, _either_?! Seriously, I did the hard part-- all you had to do was throw the damn thing in the oven! By the Spire! Are my instructions _that_ difficult, or do people just find me easy to ignore?!"

"Well, I can't speak for your coworkers, but Laura and I are certainly finding you difficult to ignore," Cecil comments, his head poking through the door that connects the kitchen to the living room. Frowning faintly, the Higher is cradling their five-month-old against his breast; he pats her back to the same steady rhythm that anybody else might irritatingly tap a foot. "And hello to you, too, by the way. Can I ask who shoved the rolling pin up your butt today, or would that be considered rude?"

Earl flushes a shade of scarlet as bright as his hair, caught somewhere between flustered and embarrassed and annoyed. There is guilt, too, when he sees his dozing daughter start to rouse, gumming her fist as she squirms against her daddy. Before he can wake her properly, the sous chef lowers the frying pan in his grip, setting it against the burner with more care than he had originally intending. 

"I just... It was a bad day," Earl grumbles, turning to face his family. His husband-- annoyed for his own reasons now, and understandably so-- nonetheless dons an empathetic expression upon noting the dark bags beneath dull eyes, and the shallow scratches that connect a number of the other's freckles. Even the street clothes that Earl had been wearing under his uniform are dusted in flour and bone residue, and his locks have the distinctly mussed look of someone who has been yanking at their roots for several straight hours. 

The radio host tuts, sympathetic, as he wanders to his weary mate's side. The hand that is not cupping their little one's tiny bottom lifts to cup Earl's cheek, caressing it gently. And despite all of his previous vim and vinegar (the latter being oddly literal), Earl immediately melts into his lover's touch, nuzzling into that tender palm. His scowl vanishes; his lashes flutter. Cecil hums, soothing and sweet.

"...do you wanna talk about it, Birdie?" he offers in a patient murmur. The bone of his hip brushes against Earl's thigh as he juts it, creating a shared perch for Laura. 

Without hesitation, the sous chef reaches out for his daughter, wordlessly offering to take a turn with her. Two hands are safer than one; he holds the wee bundle of footed jammies and bonnet to his chest, granting Cecil the ability to hug him properly. Earl sighs, and snuggles, and softly confesses:

"I'm kind of sick of talking, to be honest."

"Ah. I know the feeling." The Higher chuckles, pressing his lips to his Lesser's temple. "Well, then. You don't have to talk. And you don't have to cook, either. I'll fix us up a little something to eat, so you just relax. If you could put Lo-Lo to bed, though..."

"Wait. You? Cook?" Unbidden, Earl feels himself smirk, a guttural chuckle adding texture to the voice that he's muffled against Cecil's throat. "You told me that you only know how to make s'mores."

"And I am not claiming otherwise now," the radio host retorts cheerily, detaching himself from his mate and their offspring. His violet eyes are full of mischievous starlight as he presses a kiss to Earl's forehead, his nose, his mouth-- then to their child's cheek, bidding her goodnight. "You look like a man who needs dessert for dinner. And lucky you, we have a fresh bag of marshmallows, clean takeout chopsticks, and a new Balsam Forest Yankee jar candle to make some highly caloric magic happen."

"I..." Earl blinks, thinking to protest. He should protest. Two grown men should not sit cross-legged on a kitchen island and make a meal out of toasting marshmallows over a candle. But then again, after a long, _long_ day of being an adult, perhaps a bit of childishness is exactly what he needs. There is, after all, more to health than broccoli and roast. 

For the first time in hours, the sous chef smiles.

"I'll be right back."


	37. Study Buddies

"Oh, hi, Ce--!"

Cecil's fist slams into Earl's solar plexus with enough strength to send the Lesser reeling, lanky arms spinning like freckled pinwheels as he topples over the entryway. The front door squeaks the latter half of the redhead's interrupted greeting, swinging on its hinge as the Higher swings himself inside the house. The teen's Tattoos have recently grown strong enough to hold him upside-down and spider-like, a development that he had taken advantage of by suspending himself from the awning above the jamb; now he skitters after his winded companion, leaving ichor stains and scuff marks on the wallpaper of the Harlan home.

"Hngh--!"

This sort of sneak attack, Cecil readily confesses, is a dirty tactic-- in more ways than one. But he is smart enough to know that 'standing a chance' sometimes means 'crouching and slinking and hiding on your best friend's rooftop for three hours, waiting for the perfect chance to ambush him.' In any case, Cecil would feel more guilty if he thought he'd managed any real damage, but from the way that Earl had been able to immediately utilize his Invisibility Badge, he probably hasn't.

"..."

The Higher frowns, eyes narrowing into slits as he fruitlessly scrutinizes the corridor. There are no shadows, no tells, no hints... He has no idea where the wounded Earl may now be hiding. Vigilant in the unseen face of the unknown, Cecil warily allows his tiptoes to touch the hardwood--

"Crap--!"

Only to yank them swiftly back, scrambling further up the wall as the vestibule's floor tiles fall abruptly away, revealing a void of hungry darkness below. He swears colorfully, crawling over barbed family portraits (and beneath one mirror) on his way to the kitchen. There will be weapons there, he knows. He is not certain where his winded prey had escaped to, but no doubt there will at least be clues in the machete drawe--

"Oof!" 

It is the Higher's turn to go flying, now-- and not nearly so gracefully as before. Tattoos flail for lost purchase as Cecil is pounced upon from behind, sent sprawling forward in a tangle of arms and legs and other sundry organs. Strong fingers lace through the hair on the back of his crown, scratching at his scalp before forcibly slamming him face-first into the kitchen's linoleum. 

_CRACK._

The Higher hisses, feeling the plates of his skull splinter in ways that would _really smart_ if he were human. As it is, it takes him no fewer than three heartbeats to clear the plague spots from his vision and remember what his name is. Then he is rearing, shoving against the hips that have him painfully pinned. Behind his back, Cecil's arms have been bound skillfully by his captor, but the Lesser lacks the limbs to truss all of his quarry's prehensile appendages. Earl yelps as Tattoos squirm beneath his thighs, flipping him up and over and _down._

"Gah--!"

The ground shakes. The redhead wheezes. He thrusts a fist forward, fingers separated by serrated bread knives. The Lesser takes a stab at the tender muscles of Cecil's exposed side, but his jab is expertly avoided, countered; he compensates with a vigor that sends them both rolling, kicking and tangling and thrashing against one another. Blades clatter; flesh slaps flesh; sneakers squeak and ribs creak in protest as they careen into a wall, colliding hard enough to rock the room's foundations. 

They breathe, eyes and mouths open equally wide. 

"...good study session," Earl huffs a handful of minutes later, tension bleeding from his body along with other coppery fluids. He snuffles back some vital liquid or another, grinning as Cecil flashes a sanguineous smile of his own, nodding exuberantly. 

"We'll be sure to pass finals this year, too," the Higher cheers, though his voice sounds a bit graveled from abuse. Yet, despite this, it manages to portray the perfect amount of flirtatious interest as Cecil lowers himself more fully atop his sprawled companion, lacing their legs in a very different manner than before. 

"Sooo..." he then offers, his tone deceptively light. Hopeful. Wanton."Study break?"

Earl's eyes flicker sweetly between black and red and red and black, their sockets ringed by both vivid hues. As he cards his hands once more through his friend's bicolored hair, he chuckles-- knee crooking and shifting and rubbing gently as he teases: 

"Well. Okay. But only because you've been trying so hard."


	38. Celebration

**A/N:** More crossdressing~ Ask and ye shall receive. I love a Cecil with transvestite tendencies. 

**XXX**

" _I feel pretty~ Oh, so pretty~ I feel pretty, and witty, and_ \--"

Cecil pauses, pursing to properly apply his lipstick. One sweeping smear of strawberry pink later, he smacks his lips in the vanity mirror, plucks up his mascara, and sings in a single breath--

" _Whatever-that-next-bit-was-it-seems-I've-temporarily-forgotten-because-lyrics-are-hard-to-memorize-unless-you-feel-that-they-specifically-apply-to-you-in-some-significant-waaaay!_ "

"Mmm. No wonder you forgot that next bit, then," Earl drawls from atop the bed, sitting with his back to the headboard and a magazine in his lap. He glances up and grins teasingly as his husband snaps him with a coaled and colorfully shadowed glare, the rosy light of the bedroom catching off of the spangled flowers painted onto his nails. But the scout's expression is nothing if not adoring, despite his sarcasm. Cecil finds himself feeling placated in spite of his best attempts to glower. But it is a special night, so... Well.

The Higher's teeth are as sharp as his amethyst eyes as he turns back towards his reflection, gingerly tugging the curlers from his hair. Ringlets bouncing freely about his rouged cheeks, he sweetly continues:

" _And I pity any boy who isn't Earl today_ ~"

"As you should," the Lesser agrees, with markedly more sincerity than before. "I certainly do."

Cecil snorts, the retort timed between spritzes of his rose perfume. "Flatterer," he berates then, even as he beams. Replacing the delicate glass bottle, the radio host spins 'round on his stool, arms spread wide as he stands. "Well? How do I look for our big date?"

As he prompts his lover, Cecil smooths down his sequenced turquoise dress, pigeon-toeing a heeled pair of classy strapped saddles. A moonstone anklet clatters as he twirls and flails his airy skirt, the accessory a tasteful match for the opalescent beads wound in asymmetric layers around his pale neck. The cosmetic blush he'd earlier applied pales in comparison to the lilac flush Cecil gains as Earl gapes and grins, making appreciative little sounds of pleasure in the back of his throat as he rises to his feet, as well. Swiftly-- enthusiastically. Totally forgotten, his magazine falls to the floor with a rustle as the scout steps forward, taking Cecil's hands.

"You look stunning. You always look stunning. But especially so now," he avows, with such earnestness and affection that Cecil gives serious consideration to pushing him back atop that bed. But no-- they have a reservation at Gino's, and he's not sure how much longer he'll be able to fit into this dress.

Which, as it happens, is the very thing they plan on celebrating tonight. The Higher beams, allowing the backs of his knuckles to be kissed before he brings both his hands and Earl's to his belly, flat for now but soon to swell.

"Really? Especially so? Is that because of the dress or the pregnancy glow?" Cecil jokingly inquires, nose brushing nose and arms twining around waists. He purrs a giggle as his husband presses another kiss to his temple, leading his lover to the door. Time may not work quite right in Night Vale, but it is still possible to be late.

"Because as a general rule, you do nothing but become more and more stunning with each passing moment," Earl says, opening the bedroom door for his gussied, beloved husband, "no matter what you wear."

"Or don't wear?" the Higher poses, smirking. Earl doesn't miss a beat.

"Especially then."

Laughing aloud, Cecil allows himself to be bowed from their room, his curls and fabrics flouncing. Bright plum eyes shimmer with near-palpable reverence as he spins to regard his mate once more, winking an expertly lined eye. 

"Well, let's test that claim after supper, shall we?"


	39. Plans

"I'm here to fuck you and drink cups of tea, but I'm all out of tea!"

"Did you check behind the sugar?"

"I-- um. Earl, that's not the point--"

"Well, did you? I'm making a grocery list, so if we're really out..."

"Uh... I thought I drank the last of it last night but-- Oh, lookit that. There _is_ some camomile in here. And a few bags of blueberry dreams, too."

"I thought so. Good to know. Hey, while you're going through the cupboard, what's the status on honey?"

"We've got an unopened bottle. But we need more granola."

"Awesome, thanks. Granola, eggs, potatoes... Right. Now, then-- You were saying? Something about your plans...?"

"Oh, yeah. First-- I'm gonna drink a bunch of tea."

"...really. You're gonna commit to that bit, then."

"Actually, I just wanna add more cherry blossom tea to the list, but we agreed to only two flavors at a time, so..."

"Gotcha. I'll boil some water, then. And once we're properly hydrated...?"

"We'll go grocery shopping, and you'll balance on the bottom shelf of the cart while I push you around, Titanic style."

"As always. And then...?"

"We'll probably buy milk while we're out, so we should put that all away as soon as we get back."

"Obviously. But after that?"

"Start supper?"

"Then?"

"Hmm... Dessert?"

"You're killing me here, Cecil."

"Please don't die while perched on my lap. That would be creepy."

"...much like refusing to let go of a person's hand."

"Yes, well, see-- I need you here to finish that first thing on my To Do list. That list being very literal, where you're involved."

"I see. So then-- the full plan is...?"

"Fuck you, drink tea, go shopping, make a healthy meal, enjoy a less healthy dessert, then maybe cuddle while watching 'Veronica Mars'...? Sound good?"

"Sounds great."


	40. Thrift Shop

**A/N:** Punkrockgaia asked for Eternity!Vale something, and I am always happy to provide... Though after reading Jathis' cute spinoff, "Meanings and New Beginnings," I wanted to add some Janice... And I've been meaning to write more non-eldritch Laura, anyway... So this happened. I hope it's still okay. Or, preferably, enjoyable. And if anyone else has any prompts, please let me know!

**XXX**

"All right, we are cued up!"

"Janice, I am begging. Be a good role model for your cousin."

"Janice is already the best role model by virtue of being awesome. Now then, sweetheart-- you ready?"

"Yeah!" Janice cheers, lanky arms flailing in a one-woman rendition of the wave. Directly beside the exuberant teenager, buckled safely into her polka-dotted baby seat, little Laura blows a raspberry and mimics her aforementioned role model, creating a veritable vision of cuteness. Cecil shoots a brief glance back to admire the scene, but can do no more than that. Safety first, etc. Still, he sometimes laments being the designated driver on these trips. If he were the one in the passenger seat, he might be able to enjoy the sight properly.

But then, if he were the one in the passenger seat, they would probably all wind up dying, seeing as Earl has yet again burrowed his face in his palms and doesn't seem to have any intention of looking up. Looking up would acknowledge the insanity of his family, after all. He doesn't want to do that. But, as per usual, this serves more to _encourage_ his husband and niece than it does to deter them.

"Okay, then! Three, two--"

"Hey, Uncle Cecil! Can we go thrift shopping?" Janice chirps over the pre-recorded track, her timing perfect in ways that only repeated practice could make it. Her laughter is equally practiced: the sort reserved for long-running jokes, airy but genuine. She shoots her uncle's reflection a lopsided grin before she joins him in a bobble-headed dance. 

"Honestly, you two..." Earl groans, in a muffled drone that is easily drowned out by the spunky hip-hop that has begun pounding its way out of the truck's speakers. First Green Day, now this... At some point, he and his husband should really sit down and discuss what does and doesn't make an appropriate kids' song. But there's nothing to be done about it now-- sans to manually turn the music off, which seems a bit senseless, at this point. They'd probably just continue a-cappella. 

Beside him, the radio host smirks-- teeth glinting as starkly as his sunglasses as he maneuvers the car into traffic. He looks so very pleased with himself, Earl has to physically resists the urge to smack him. The scoutmaster sighs. "Do you have to do this _every_ time we go to Goodwill?" 

" _What, what, what, what? What, what, what, what?_ " the pair gleefully chants, which in its own obnoxious way is answer enough. Earl rolls his eyes, exhaling deeply as he tries to accept his current reality. Which-- for reasons he can only assume are somehow karmic in nature-- includes his ridiculous husband rapping in front of their niece and daughter. 

" _Ah, walk up to the club like, 'What up? I got a big cock!'  
Nah, I'm just pumped about some shit from the thrift shop_," Cecil jams, swinging back and forth in the driver's seat with his hands braced at ten and two. " _Ice on the fringe, it's so damn frosty  
That people like_\--"

Two sets of eyes snap expectantly towards Earl. Then both children-- the actual one, and the one poorly disguised as an adult-- groan in disappointment, booing when the redhead fails to do the line. Or say anything, for that matter.

"Did you forget the lyrics?" Cecil teasingly jeers, giving his head a judgmental shake as Janice frowns, the expression framed by the plastic of the rear view mirror. 

"Uncle Earl! That was your bit!"

"The last time I sang with you hooligans," Earl reminds, casting Cecil a flatly accusatory stare, "a certain someone misconstrued it as permission to try and reenact the music video with a baby strapped to his front."

"And it was, indeed, fucking awesome," Cecil croons, not even remotely remorseful as his husband's scowl deepens.

"Ceese, we were banned from that shop for life."

The radio host offers a one-armed shrug, glancing back at his niece for confirmation. "It was still awesome, though. Right?"

"Right!"

"Left," Earl interrupts dully, pointing out the next turn when Cecil nearly misses it. "And also wrong. But at least that Desert Bluff location was terrible. I didn't particularly feel like going back to that store, anyway."

"Well, see? There you are. Now we'll never have to go again. Just as I planned," Cecil smirks, still not the least bit sorry for his misadventures in chair bouncing. It had made for an excellent segment on his show that night, and had totally been worth the busted lounger that they had been politely asked to purchase afterwards. As for the baby, well-- Laura had certainly had fun, if her silent screeches were anything to judge by. So had Janice, particularly after they'd found a set of old building blocks and stuffed toys. Wheelchair or no, she did quite a phenomenal Godzilla impression-- a talent that she had been more than happy to demonstrate for everyone. And the girls' happiness means more to Cecil than pretty much anything.

Of course, their happiness means as much to Earl, too. He just tries to be the mature one about it. 

"C'mooooon," Cecil wheedles as their niece pouts her bottom lip, sticking it out far enough to trip on. No wonder the scoutmaster feels himself stumble as his husband says, "Sing with us. Do the thing. Join in and I promise not to try on the footie pajamas this time." 

He arches an eyebrow, wordlessly threatening to do the exact opposite of this if his husband refuses to come out and play. 

Earl has never burst into song so enthusiastically before. 

" _I wear your granddad's clothes  
I look incredible  
I'm in this big ass coat  
From that thrift shop down the road_," the scoutmaster keens, to much approval and whooping from the others. And if he relents and joins his family in their silly dance too, well-- it's only because Earl believes that if someone is going to do something, they may as well do it right. 

" _I'm gonna pop some tags  
Only got twenty dollars in my pocket  
I - I - I'm hunting, looking for a come-up  
This is fucking awesome!_"

Yep. That's the only reason.


	41. Collision

"Woah there-- are you okay?" 

Cecil gapes openly at his boyfriend, rushing from the living room to further prop the front door. Earl has never been one to go out and get drunk-- and considering the time of day, the radio intern sincerely doubts his lover would have been out drinking, regardless-- but rarely has Cecil seen such a spectacular flush on anyone sober. He'd have been worried about the sudden onset of some debilitating illness or a case of The Worst Sunburn Ever if Earl hadn't been moving so fluidly.

Or slinking so fluidly, as it were. Because that's what he's doing-- slinking into the house as quickly and quietly as possible, beet-red and trying very hard to hide behind whatever is available. Which, in the foyer, is a whole lot of nothing. Unfortunately. For lack of a potted plant, or coat rack, or great stone tablet to cower behind, the scout covers his face with his hands and attempts to slip past his attentive boyfriend. And really, that should have been pretty easy, considering he has every badge in the book that has to do with slipperiness-- of which there are at least two dozen-- but with as flustered as he is and Cecil's stalwart determination, Earl barely manages to slide into the apartment before being trapped within the nearest corner. 

"What happened? Are you okay?" Cecil demands again, with a frantic concern that is underscored by the slamming of the front door. Caught between the laths of his lover's long arms, Earl braces against the wall and tries to find something to look at that isn't Cecil's face. Which is, again, fairly difficult. They should really consider getting a picture or bear skin to spruce this place up. Maybe he could--

"Earl!" Cecil snaps, regaining the scout's wandering attentions in an instant. Their eyes meet, despite Earl's best attempts to avoid them... But it's just as well that they do, for his embarrassment has nothing on Cecil's escalating anxiety. Oh dear... Perhaps it's worse to keep quiet, then. Especially since the story will no doubt make its way back to Cecil, anyway...

As they say, it's best to just pull the piraña teeth out quickly.

"I-- sorry," the scout mumbles, turning colors even brighter than his flaming hair. Shifting within the corner, he clamps a hand over his mouth-- as if in some last ditch effort to filter his confession-- before gracelessly blurting, "Nothing bad happened, I just... Um. I was in a sort of accident on the subway...?" 

The awkward statement becomes an awkward question with an awkward upward squeak. Cecil finds himself full of questions, as well. Still, he knows better than to speak-- that's just the sort of distraction that will keep Earl from spitting out what had happened. So instead, the radio intern arcs a prompting eyebrow, grasping his boyfriend's shoulders and keeping him steady as another wave of mortification washes over him.

"Ugh-- it's stupid I--! Okay, um, the train was really crowded, right?" Earl says, raking a hand through his rumpled tresses as he goes back to examining the ceiling for cracks or spiders or ninjas or whatever it is he seems so intent on finding. "So I had to stand. But you know how the train is-- lots of sudden stops and all. And at one point I lost my balance and-- uh-- this girl I was standing by did too, and we collided, and she fell, and there was scrambling, and she... Um... Accidentally grabbed... something..."

So brightly maroon now that he is literally exuding heat, Earl chances a glance towards Cecil-- and finds that his boyfriend is artlessly gaping at him, eyes wide and mouth slack. He appears to be torn between shock and some twisted brand of amusement... Not wholly unlike the girl from earlier, come to think of it. 

"You got groped...?" Cecil summarizes, voice strained from something that isn't laughter, exactly, but isn't lacking in humor, either. The reaction has Earl burrowing his face in his hands again, his ears threatening to burst into flames as they peek out from beneath his locks.

"She didn't do it on purpose!" he weakly protests, trying to salvage the stranger's reputation as much as his own. "But, um, yeah. And you remember the first time you, er... When you first saw my... Um. What you said when... You know..."

"Something about deserving a badge...?" Cecil drawls, smirking darkly when his boyfriend groans and swiftly nods. 

"Yeah, um... She kinda-- kinda exclaimed something of the sort... To the whole train... In three languages."

The clock in the kitchen strikes 4:67 AM, which is incorrect in a number of ways. Most notably because it is very much early evening, as the litany of well-times crickets attest to beyond the windows. The unseen insects chirp cheerfully through the heavy hush that falls between the two, growing quiet again only after Cecil clears his throat.

"...so let me get this straight," Cecil then summarizes, voice tight as he drums his nails against his boyfriend's broad shoulders. "This girl lost her balance, grabbed the biggest thing in the area to catch herself--"

"Oh my gods, don't..."

"--copped a feel while she was at it, then made sure that everyone knew what they were missing in the most colorful way possible." The radio intern considers all of this, chewing on his bottom lip either to keep from scowling or grinning. It's a bit difficult to tell which. "I hope that's not all she said, at least. You deserved an apology. Maybe an invitation to dinner and a movie."

"Cecil...! Still not helping," Earl moans, scrubbing at his brow in an attempt to stave off a pounding headache. All he accomplishes, though, is to add pink streaks of friction to his already scarlet features. Which also doesn't help. "And she _did_ apologize. Profusely. But at that point, her doing so just turned it all into a bigger scene, and the SSP got involved, and the resulting paperwork was even less fun than usual-- which is saying something-- despite the story sounding like the start of a bad porn when transcribed onto municipal documents..."

"Mmm. Nothing quite as sexy as bureaucracy," Cecil hums, though with more sympathy now. Sympathy, and escalating disquiet. He, too, glances towards the ceiling, frowning as he seeks invisible answers there. "But if the Secret Police got involved, no doubt they'll be a segment on the show tonight..."

The musing is interrupted by a spluttered choking noise. 

"Oh Masters, don't say that," Earl keens, blanching from red to white so fast that Cecil fears he might faint. Frankly, in the wake of a rush like that, he's impressed when the scout doesn't keel over immediately. "Just-- no. No, no, no. I don't even want to think ab--!" 

Earl chokes again, the sound as spluttered as the first time. This time, though, the noise is colored less by indignation, and more by startled arousal. The scout mewls, squirming wildly, when his boyfriend's clever mouth suddenly latches onto the nape of an oversensitive neck and gives a loving suckle. 

"Cecil!" Earl gasps, the name strained as all the blood that had fled his cheeks begins to pool elsewhere. Bleating and bucking, he starts to writhe again--against the wall, against his boyfriend, against the hand that slides down the inseam of his trousers... "Cecil, what're you--? Hngh--!"

"I'm making a point," the intern says calmly-- though his smile does hint at a recognized entendre. He gives his lover's neck a tender bite, then pulls away enough to breathily murmur, "It's one thing to know that some random girl got all up on what's mine. I mean, _ew_ , but after a good spit-shine to clean you up-- if you know what I mean-- I think we would have both been feeling better. But if this sordid little misadventure is going to go public, well... I'm afraid I'll have to mark my territory a bit more obviously." 

Cecil smirks, tonguing the start of what promises to be a lovely violet bruise. The velveteen sensation has Earl groaning, sinking-- knees buckling beneath him as, for the second time that day, a seeking hand finds something worthy of holding. Whimpering through a series of purposeful strokes, the scout wildly flutters his lashes, shifting to willingly expose more of his throat. 

"O-oh... Please--!"

Cecil purrs, his own lids hooded with possessiveness and pleasure as his lover submits. "Good boy," he sweetly praises, lowering himself to an elegant crouch. Lips are licked, a toggle is pulled-- a smile is lovingly, wickedly offered. 

"And after this, _I'll_ treat you to dinner and a movie."


	42. Song

"Cecil I... I'm sorry, this is difficult to say..."

"Earl, if it needs to be said it needs to be said. Just... pull off the bandaid."

"Okay. Okay, I-- look, you're great. Wonderful. Amazing, even, but..."

"But...?"

"But you are seriously delusional when it comes to music," Earl concludes, glaring dully at his fiancé. The tower of old CDs and vinyl records between them wavers as the redhead tosses another rejected cassette tape atop the pile, sighing. "We are not using 'Every Breath You Take' at our wedding. Have you ever actually _listened_ to its lyrics? It's a stalker song."

"A stalker song? Oh c'mon," Cecil snorts, giving his eyes a good natured, if histrionic roll. "Just because you think the narrator is a little possessive--"

"No, seriously, it's about a stalker. Google it," Earl interrupts, gesturing vaguely at the iPhone resting somewhere to their left. Unimpressed-- and unconvinced--, the radio host rises to the presented challenge, plucking up the phone to do just that. He makes a show of it, even: leaning lethargically back in his wicker chair and pulling a series of increasingly silly faces as his lover scoffs, then returns to skimming track titles. 

"Hmmm... I dunno, Early," Cecil hums as he twiddles with the phone, half of his attention focused on the screen and the other half upon his boyfriend, "for as smoothly as any wedding ever goes, I say we just put 'Yakety Sax' on repeat and call it a day. I mean, no matter what we do, it's all probably gonna go to hell-- oh, hey, you're right!" 

Straightening a bit in surprise, Cecil blinks, does a small double take, and proceeds to scroll through a rather detailed article about the famous song. The famous stalker song, more accurately. "Huh. And it's by a band called the Police. There's a joke buried there, I think. Likely in a shallow grave."

"Wow. Tasteful as ever, dearest." Pulling a face of his own, Earl reaches out to snatch back the phone, confiscating it before his fiancé has a chance to stumble upon some bizarre factoid that makes him want to use the song even more. Or before he loses the other to Fruit Ninja. "Look, I know everything is gonna go crazy-wrong, because that's just what happens at any large family gathering, and there is no point in resisting the inevitable. But at the very least, I'd like for our special day to go crazy-wrong with a crazy-awesome soundtrack. So. As a radio host with an eclectic taste in music, do you think you can spare two minutes to wrack your brain for something we can play at our wedding?"

Earl looks at Cecil, prompting. Cecil looks back at Earl, pensive. 

"... 'Kyle's Mom's a Bitch,'" he then decrees, with all the panache of a king announcing a jousting tournament. Which is appropriate, really, since Earl is looking more and more like he might actually skewer his companion. 

"Cecil."

"Well, she is!"

"Cecil..."

"Have you met her? My Aunt Francis?"

Earl's stare remains as flat as a dagger. Coincidentally, it is as dangerous as one, too. " _Cecil_ ," he threatens, "I am not afraid of being a widower before my wedding."

"Oh, c'mon! I'm just saying that-- I...wait." 

The radio host frowns, ticking the words of his fiancé's retort off on his fingers, mentally reviewing what had been said. "If you're a widower _at_ the wedding, does that mean you'd murder me, but still marry me? Like, you'd just sort of prop up my corpse and go with it...?" Cecil wonders at this, somber scowl deepening as he asks, "...exactly what stage of rigor mortis would I be in during our honeymoon?"

"For the love of--"

There is a delicate thud as Earl's forehead makes close friends with the kitchen table. Then another thud as they reacquaint. Then a third for good measure. "If only you'd put as much effort into choosing music as you do into understanding the logistics of the stupid and grammatically incorrect comments I make..." the scout bemoans in muffled monotone, jostling a stack of Josh Groban albums as he shakes his head.

Cecil mimics the gesture with equal exasperation, despite being so pointedly ignored.

"I just want to know if my fiancé is a closet necrophiliac! I really feel like that sort of kink should, you know, be seriously discussed between couples. Like BDSM. Or a fondness for serenading people in Spanish while they sleep."

Earl wishes he could keep himself from laughing. Laughing will only encourage Cecil, he knows, and encouraging Cecil is very low on his current list of things To Do. But then, if he doesn't laugh, he might just cry, and that's no good, either. "I am as much a closeted necrophiliac," he drones wryly, "as you are a closeted cat lover, you boob."

Cecil is the one to laugh, this time-- a rumbling grunt of mirth that he underscores with an exuberant slap to the table. The reverberation has Earl jolting upright, moving just in time to catch the tail end of the idle smirk that crawls over his boyfriend's pliant lips. "Now there's a sentiment I'd love to hear reflected in song," he teases, winking winningly. 

"What, a song about you being a boob?" Earl huffs, trying in vain to keep any more amusement from sneaking into his voice. He folds his hands before him as if he were conducting an interview; Cecil responds with the sort of thoughtful idiocy often personified by his own interviewees. 

"Mmm, I think the world has enough songs about boobs," he mulls after weighing the issue-- with both hands-- in front of his chest. "Artists should be more creative than that. A song about elbows, perhaps."

"For the fetishists?"

"Fetishists are people, too!" Cecil reminds, as if morally offended by the sarcasm that he senses in Earl's dry tone. "They have needs. And they have weddings. And they have needs for wedding songs."

"You don't say. All right, then," the redhead concedes, knowing from years of scouting experience that, more often than not, it is easier to go with the flow, rather than fight against it. Literally, as is often the case for him. But also figuratively. "Is there a particular perversion you'd like to focus on? We can ask google to help us find an appropriate song. Or an inappropriate one, as is likely the case."

The radio host considers this, his gaze locking upon Earl's as his forehead furrows beneath the weight of heavy thoughts. Hot, heavy thoughts. Thoughts with heft. And girth. "...a song about grinding you to screaming orgasm on the dance floor," he eventually decrees, a set of steepled fingers balanced somberly beneath his chin. 

The scout doesn't even bother looking scandalized. He had frankly been expecting worse. In fact, Earl finds himself oddly disappointed that his boyfriend hadn't thought outside of the box a bit more. Or at least thought his joke all the way through.

" _Really_ ," Earl intones, arms crossing loosely over his chest as he lifts a single eyebrow. "On the dance floor? At the reception? In front of your _niece?_ "

Even if his fiancé hadn't, Cecil, at least, has the good graces to look scandalized.

"What? Earl, no! Don't be obscene!" he scolds, donning an expression of flustered disgust as he regards the redhead across from him. He shakes his head, mortified. "God! I'd never do something like that _in front_ of Janice! Obviously I'd wait until after she had turned around! Or had gone to the bathroom or something."

"Oh, yes. Obviously." Earl looks towards Heaven again, gaze lingering as if he were silently asking to borrow some of the good Lord's extra strength. Whether or not that prayer is answered remains a mystery to Cecil, as many things in life do. Like algebra, for example. And why hot yoga is a thing. And yet, for all that he doesn't quite know or get it, Cecil cares about all of that stuff anyway, because Earl cares about it. And he cares about Earl. He cares so very, very much about Earl. 

"Well, maybe we can compromise with Marianas Trench..." Earl is mumbling, more to himself now than to his companion. He is not annoyed, exactly, but the scoutmaster does seem convinced that Cecil will prove to be nothing more than useless, and has chosen to temporarily cut his losses. He likely won't acknowledge his boyfriend again unless physically prompted.

Well, that can be arranged.

Beneath the small table, lax legs and long feet have tangled; Cecil nudges his lover's kneecap with his own-- once, twice, three times--, only to flush brightly when Earl glances up in bemusement.

"...I know it's stupid, but I really like the orchestral version of Tim Minchin's 'You Grew On Me,'" the radio host confesses, sinking a bit further into his chair in his embarrassment. He smiles-- and though the expression is soft and sheepish and half hidden behind his hands, it is genuine. Hopeful. "I mean, it's still probably not good for a wedding, and it does contain references to half a dozen deadly ailments, but I promise that there are no stalkers in it."

Earl pauses. Gapes. Reevaluates what he thought he'd heard, examining it for entendres. Then-- slowly-- he dons a grin of his own, chuckling sweetly as he gives Cecil's shin an affectionate caress with the tips of his toes. 

"No stalkers is a start."


	43. Meeting

“…and that’s how you teach a bear to dance the mamba. Any questions?”

Hands clasped smartly behind him, Scoutmaster Harlan gives a swift about-face turn, his back to his whiteboard and the table that he’d filled with assorted equipment. While a few of his boys continue to curiously scrutinize those props— a banana, a bag of pre-washed cotton balls, the key to a 1978 Chevy Impala, and other basic gear— the grand majority are gaping up at their leader, rapt with attention. Hands shoot into the air as soon as Earl gives the prompt, filling the pine-scented room with gangly arms. The children squeak and stretch, going so far as to tauten their leg muscles, too, in their enthusiasm.

“Sir! Sir! I have a question, Sir!” a little boy in the back of the cabin cries over the general kerfuffle. Scout Donaldson, Earl recognizes, the child's gaze bright and earnest behind a pair of Coke bottle glasses. And really, he shouldn’t acknowledge a Scout who speaks out of turn… But the prescription of those glasses had been upped from Pepsi this past week, and the redhead knows that had depressed him. He figures he may as well take pity, this once. Frowning faintly to show some degree of dissatisfaction, Earl nevertheless points and nods—

“What’s that huge mark on your neck, Sir?”

—and immediately turns fuchsia, choking on a wordless splutter as every other hand in the room falls away. Not literally, luckily. Or unluckily. That would have made for an excellent distraction. A lot of paperwork, maybe, but Earl thinks he’d rather deal with that than this particular query. Bristling, he gapes down at his eager troupe, a palm snapping instinctively to hide his colored nape. In retrospect, it’s not the wisest reaction.

“Ow!”

Earl hisses, pulling his hand just as immediately away. He had wound up slapping himself. Of course he had. Well, at least he hadn’t started cursing, too, though it’d been a close call. Because really. _Damn._ The bruise there is fresh, round and tender and—coincidentally—the exact same shade of purple as his husband’s wicked eyes. It aches when the Scoutmaster swallows, blustering breathily. Heavily. He darts a flustered gaze to his left, then his right, then back again, as if seeking a bear to teach to mamba. Or a 1978 Chevy Impala to drive away in. Or a window to leap from. Or all of those things, because frankly, combining them would make for a pretty dramatic exit.

But of course, he finds nothing but a sea of bemused, if mildly concerned, faces.

“I, uh… I got into a scuffle with a multi-mouthed, five-legged land octopus,” the Scoutmaster eventually manages, wishing in vain that it hadn’t been so long since he’d last brushed up on the skills he'd learned for the Lying Through One’s Teeth Badge. That had been downright pathetic. Even the most gullible boys in his troupe—the ones who still believe in _mountains_ — are looking incredulous. It doesn’t help that Earl can’t seem to stop blushing. “

“But you always win every fight,” a portly child named Scout Smith pipes up from somewhere near the front, his pudgy little nose wrinkling in bafflement. “Even if you had been up against _two_ multi-mouthed, five-legged land octopuses, you would have won.”

“I never said I didn’t win,” Earl says quickly. Very quickly. Probably too quickly, but fuck it. Or fuck it again, as it were. “I came out on top. It just landed a few bites on me.”

“Did it hurt?” Scout Peters calls from near the door, a position that Earl very much envies at this moment. “When you got bit?”

“Um… a little?” The redhead squirms, his fingertips twitching against his hicky. And yes, it does hurt. It hurts in the absolute best ways. Earl clamps down on his lower lip as a bolt of delicious discomfort shoots from his throat to his stomach, then lower than his stomach— the sensation sinking like a stone or, oh, say, a possessive radio host to his knees. Even his freckles are quivering, now. “But as with anything in life, the important thing is not to give up with things get hard. Er—difficult.”

The boys nod, cross-legged and attentive, as they soak up his wisdom like sheets soak up—

“Scoutmaster, after you won the fight, did you mount it?” a young Scout Tanaka asks, brimming with innocence. But that guilelessness melts into something awkwardly nonplussed when his leader all but keels over, blanching as white as the humanoid bones periodically discovered in the Sand Wastes. Poor Scout Tanaka frantically back-peddles, rocking on his bum as he physically tries to shrug off any embarrassment from having maybe suggested something weird. “That’s just… what my dad does when he catches realtors. We have a bunch on our wall.”

Were these children not incredibly impressionable, Earl would seriously consider beating himself unconscious against a wall of his own.

_Sweet Spire, Harlan, get your head out of the gutter._

“Er, yep. Yeaaaah, that’s what I did,” Earl coughs instead, wondering if there is or isn’t comfort in the fact that he isn’t even lying anymore. “There is a multi-mouthed, five-legged land octopus in my house. Right now. And yes, it _is_ cool,” he agrees, having to raise his voice a touch when the pronouncement is met by avid cheers and impressed “ooo”s. He raises his voice, and from that vantage point, he sees an opportunity—and he pounces on it. “It’s _really_ cool, but the thing about multi-mouthed, five-legged land octopuses is that they sometimes get lonely and clingy—very clingy—even after you’ve mounted them on the wall. So. Unless anyone has any questions _specifically_ about today’s meeting—” Earl sweeps his bicolored gaze over the gathered children, who make no secret of how little interest they have in earning their Dance Instructor badges, the brats— “then I have to get back home to my catch. Meeting adjourned.”

“But Scoutmaster! What about that bruise on your thig—?”

" _Meeting. Adjourned._ ”


	44. Relaxation

"A-ah-- _Nnn!_ Oh, oh-- yes! Yes, _perfect,_ B-Birdie, baby, _please_...!"

Cecil keens, wriggling sweetly. Desperately. The sofa groans beneath him as he writhes, its exclamation sonorous-- deep and cracked in ways that one would expect from the radio host more than a wooden frame. Even one from the Whispering Forest. But Cecil has spent his whole life defying expectations, and he isn't about to change that habit now. With each stilted buck, he chokes on a shrill bleat. A pitched whine. His voice is as high and sharp as the hands clawing at his face, palms barely muffling the wet whimpers that cling in strings of saliva to his fingers. Those fingers twitch, much like his thighs-- muscles buried under pale flesh quaking like earth beneath Earl's ruddy cheeks. 

Earl's ruddy, hollowed cheeks. 

"F-fuck... Oh, fuck me, darling, your goddamn _tongue_ \--"

That goddamned tongue waggles, scrawling an unseen, but intimate message into overly sensitive skin. A hiccup of pleasure is answered by the loudest, hungriest, most obscene slurp that Cecil has ever heard. Sweet _Spire_ \--! Each loving suckle sends shocks of seismic promotions through the prone Higher, his toes twisting in the ether as his heels scramble against his mate's shoulder blades.

"Hngh-- p-please, Earl, pleaseplease _please_ \--...!"

Cecil braces and kicks; Earl swallows and moans. Woolen socks brightly patterned with golden-scaled dragons catch in the redhead's hair as the Higher beats and thrashes and tries to curl more than just his lithe legs inward-- but the weight of his belly keeps him perfectly pinned, pressed into the couch. He paws at the swell of it, at the crown of his lover. It is a kittenish gesture; he mewls, needy. Needing. Needing just-- just a little-- _just_ \--!

"S-so close, gods, I... Oh gods--! Oh gods, _EARL_ \--!"

The Higher wails, Tattoos curdling into starbursts upon the lavender flush of his flesh. His stockings chafe against his husband's knitted sweater, kneecaps accidentally boxing freckled ears as he thrusts _up_ and _in_ and _oh_ \-- 

Oh...

 

"Oh... Oh, _masters_ ," Cecil pants, sinking so deeply into the sofa that Earl half fears him melting into the unknown dimension between the cushions. But no-- the heavily pregnant Higher is simply lethargic, contented as a cat and heavy-eyed as he purrs. The Lesser smiles as soon as he is able-- lips popping free of his mate with a lovely, lurid little noise-- and reaches out to pet his satiated lover. 

"There we are," he murmurs in a spectacularly raw voice, pinking prettily when his husband nuzzles into his palm, lashes fluttering and pulse steadying. "Feeling more relaxed now, baby doll?"

The radio host burbles a series of syllables that, at one point, may have been a sentence. They aren't any longer, but they tell Earl what he wants to know. Beaming, the Lesser presses one last kiss to his Higher's thigh, his knuckles, his lips.

"Get some sleep then, sweetheart."

Cecil doesn't need to be told twice.


	45. Shots

**A/N:** I apologize for how intelligible Earl is. I shouldn't have let him near the vodka.

**XXX**

"Hey. Hey. Hey, Shee... sheshul? _Hee_ , didju'no 'ur name'z like 'sheeshell'...?"

"It really isn't, but go on, dear."

"Huh?"

"Well, I _assumed_ you wanted my attention, what with the 'hey'ing and nearly tugging my arm out of its socket."

" _Pssssh_ ~ I alway'z wan' 'ur 'tenshion, silly. Y'no whyyyyy...?"

"Why?"

"Z! Haha, why're we singin' th' alph'bet?"

"Sweet darling, I have never seen you this drunk in my life. And that's saying something, seeing how I was there that time you drank a liter of saké, thinking it was water. I think it's time I took you home."

"Home?! Wi'h yoooou?! Oh m' gosh oh m' gosh immso lucky oh my goshhhh...! Godda b' cool so y'like me... How'k'n I b' cool so y'll like me...?"

"...Birdie, have you forgotten that we've been married for over a year?"

"Holyssshit! _Really?!_ Thassso grea'! B'cuz-- b'cuz-- 'kay, dun' tell any'ne this bu'... I've been'in love wiff y'since... since we'e're five. Like-- like 'mem'er when w'en we'e're sev'n an' you wen'as a princess fer hall'ween an' I whe'as a prince? Yeah, isscuz I wan'ed t' marry you, not 'cuz they were oudda knight cos'umes like I said..." 

"That's quite the random confession."

"Rite?! I godda 'nother! I godda-- I godda 'nother. Y'no wut I lov'...?"

"Jello shots?"

"No. Yes. Bu' y'no wut I lov' _more_...? Youuuuuu~ an'whe'youmak'mesubmi't'u."

"...what was that last bit?"

"An'wen'youmak'mesubi't'uuuu...! _Hnnngh_ , like-- Like I 'no y' dunlikeit w'en biolo...bio... DNA stuff makes' me beg but fffffffuuuu _uuck_ I jus'... I jus' wanna whine at 'ur feet 'n letchu walk on meeee... I wanna b' useful an' of _use_ an' _fulllllll_... I wan' y't'tell me how't serve you, mmmmy mas'er, m'Higher... An'-- an' _ssssshh_ , izza sekrit bu'... I boughta collar an' I'm t'embarrassed t' show y'yet so duntell..."

"Wh--? Baby! How long have you felt this way?!"

"Five, I _tol'_ you... N-no. No wai'... 8:30...? W'en'd we get't th' bar...?"

"Earl! I absolutely do not mind letting instincts take over if that's what you want! I just... I never wanted you to feel taken advantage of or used when weeeeeee should probably have this conversation later, shouldn't we?"

" _Zzzzz_..."

"Later it is."


	46. Emerald

“Which do you like better?”

“Hmmm… I dunno. Which goes best with my incredibly attractive swelling?” Cecil asks, tone sardonic but smile soft. He is lounging lazily on the sofa, legs propped and feet wiggling, as he watches his husband pick through two dozen half-used bottles of nail polish. Earl carefully scrutinizes each shade, holding a few of the shimmery ones up to the Higher’s lilac toes to consider the full effect.

Cecil wishes he could consider the full effect. Ten months into his pregnancy, and he’s nearly forgotten what his feet look like. The radio host still doesn’t believe in mountains— not being an idiot, and all— but if he had to hazard a guess as to the appearance of one, he imagines his distended belly wouldn’t be too far off. He clutches at the bulge of it, grins a bit more when something presses back, and shifts enough to peer around his bloated side. It takes some effort, but at last he manages to meet the Lesser’s gaze; Earl blinks, brown to black to brown to red, and then beams in kind.

“Well, this sparkly turquoise one matches a bruise near your ankle. And your sweater,” the redhead says sweetly, brandishing the aforementioned varnish. He then lifts another into Cecil’s view, its container as square as the other had been round. “But this metallic-y lavender one matches your soles now that you’ve had a proper foot massage.” 

“Which do _you_ like better?”

“Hmmm…” Earl frowns faintly, pinching the pots between long fingers as he weighs the issue on his shoulders. He mulls with the sobriety of a man contemplating war or peace or if Sexy was ever really gone in the first place. Then—slowly, deliberately— he sets both back in the wicker basket, plucking a spangled emerald polish out of the kaleidoscope of other options. He then raises it high enough for his mate to see, decreeing: “This one.” 

How unsurprising. The Higher chuckles, rolling his eyes as he nods his permission. Still, he can’t help pointing out, “Didn’t you choose that color last time, too?”

“And the time before that,” the Lesser cheerfully agrees, giving the lid a sharp twist. It takes a bit of effort to prize it open, but it’s nothing that a scoutmaster can’t handle. Pickle jars are way harder, anyway, and lately he’s had a lot of practice with those. “This color is my favorite.”

“I’ve sorta figured that out,” Cecil comments, the tail end of the wry retort morphing into the shrillest of giggles when Earl decides to celebrate cracking through the accumulated crust of pedicures past by pressing a kiss to the ball of his mate’s sensitive feet. The Higher squeals and writhes, each mirthful squirm stoking the embers of warmth in the redhead’s mismatched eyes. But as he settles once more—fingers clutched in the garish kitten-print of his oversized sweater— Cecil feels himself begin to frown, cocking his head when a stray question starts to niggle at the back of his brain. “…why, though?”

“Mmm?” Earl hums, prompting, as he gingerly slots his husband’s toes into the little foam spacers they’d found at the dollar store. “Why what?”

“Why is it your favorite?” Cecil specifies, pushing his elbows deep into the plump of his seat in a vain attempt to properly prop himself. He stills, though, when his mate gives him a reprimanding swat on the calf. After a few months of these pseudo-spa days, Earl has become very proud of his nail painting skills; mani-pedis are just another avenue for the scout to apply such virtues as precision, meticulousness, and patience. But today, the redhead’s steady hands falter a bit where they land… His fingertips twitch, if faintly, as they gently cradle his lover’s ankle. When he doesn’t immediately answer, Cecil continues, “I mean, I like green too, but I know in general it’s not your favorite color. So why is it your favorite polish?” 

The Higher twists a bit, peering again around his side. The Lesser ducks his head, the curtain of his flaming scarlet bangs hiding the flaming scarlet of his cheeks. 

“Um… Well,” he confesses lightly, freckles swirling like the glitter in the bottle as he swipes the first dab of varnish onto his husband’s big toe, “because it’s the color you were wearing when we first got together. You know. On that day I got the hiccups.”

“…oh.”

Not quite having expected that, Cecil flurries his lashes, cheeks turning pleasantly purple with pleasure. And nostalgia. And affection. As other warm and fuzzy emotions bubble up beneath his skin, his pretty smile widens, gaining sharp teeth and palpable adoration. “And here I thought it was just a side effect of being a tree-hugger.”

A snort. “Well, you know what they say about when you ‘assume.’”

“Your ‘ass’ and ‘u’ get in front of ‘me’?” the radio host answers hopefully, waggling his eyebrows with the sort of Groucho Marx enthusiasm that epitomizes the Unsexy. And yet, Earl’s choked bark of laughter sounds oddly charmed as it huffs through his nose, tickling his lover’s feet.

“Maybe after your nails dry.”


	47. Pink

**A/N:** Tisha wanted more Laura! Ask and ye shall receive. :)

**XXX**

"Laura Harlan-Palmer, by the Elder Gods below! What in the name of the Brown Stone Spire are you doing?!"

The little girl-- six and sneaky, but not yet nearly so stealthy as her Papa-- gives a violent start, whipping guiltily away from the vanity spread of tubes and bottles, tins and poofs. Her eyes are wide, her mouth is parted; her looping tresses have shot into the perfumed air like the tendrils of summer weeds, undulating in the still of the master bedroom as if vines caught in a breeze. And caught she is-- red handed. And red lipped. And with sticky red smears across her cheeks, along with spangles of body glitter and streaks of rouge, a rainbow of eyeshadow bowing up and beyond the pale of her brow.

"~~~~" The child waffles, her indigo fingertips stuttering around a flexing flicker. Her hands hesitate as much as her curls and the shadow that she casts; the helixes of her hair and the spirals of her silhouette wobble like the extra appendages that they are. Yet, even with the help of these additional pseudo-limbs, Laura manages to convey little more than an exceptionally eloquent, silent version of 'uhhhhhh.' 

Framed by the jamb of the door, the girl's redheaded father arches a single eyebrow, clearly exasperated. His freckles orbit around the pale of his throat like a shower of meteors: lovely, yet dangerous should they meet with resistance. Laura knows better than to resist... But never in the history of anything has _knowing_ a thing stopped someone from _trying_ the thing.

"~~~~"

" _Did_ he," Earl drones, as flat of expression as he is of tone. "Because I'm _quite_ certain that Daddy told you you're not allowed to use his pink pallet."

"~~~"

" _No_ , you're not. Not when you look so much _better_ in the brown one. Right?"

Laura nods, delicately shamed and chewing her pouting lip with slightly serrated teeth.

"So. How are we going to make this better?"

The little girl considers, tresses rippling in unfelt winds. Then, decided, she plucks up a bottle of silver polish from a wicker basket hiding in the lowest of the desk's drawers. She gesticulates with it fluently, hopefully, her features open and bright with the learned expressiveness of a used cat salesman. 

"Hmmm." Earl cocks his head. Thinks deeply. Smirks as he relents. Granting his blessing with a nod, the scoutmaster crouches low to splay his own hands before the child 

"That would balance things nicely," he agrees. "Me first?"

Laura preens, and beams, and flops down beside her Papa.


	48. Preparation

"I wanna sleep."

"Then sleep."

"But if I sleep then when I wake up it will be tomorrow. I don't want tomorrow."

"Staying awake isn't going to halt the progression of time, Cecil."

"No? Well, maybe you could stop time for us...?"

"I...? Was that a come-on, or are you trying to reference the secret usage of some forbidden badge?"

"...is there some forbidden badge worth referencing?"

"Nnnnooooo..."

"Wow. That was convincing."

"Well, clearly I'm _not_ very convincing if you're still awake. Tomorrow is coming for you whether you like it or not. Wouldn't it be better to be well-rested for it, rather than allow it to sneak up and tackle you from behind like Steve no doubt will when we get to your sister's?"

"UUUUGH~ Don't make me think about that yet! I hate Christmas dinner!"

"You love Christmas dinner."

"I hate family holidays!"

"You love family holidays."

"I hate _you._ "

"You _love_ me."

" _Do_ I?"

"Yep."

"...dammit, yeah, I do. Geez, you're persuasive."

"Mmm, maybe I _can_ be convincing when I want to be."

"Indeed. So. Are you _sure_ you don't want to try convincing me to go to the bedroom one last time...?"

"Hm, I'm _fairly_ certain that I was trying to convince you to go to bed, not get in bed..."

"Can't I do both?"

"By which you mean, 'can't I do _you_?'"

"Can't I mean both?"

"Greedy little boy, aren't you."

"What can I say? I just know exactly what I want for Christmas. C'mon, Birdie, let me open up my present early~ Fill me with the patience and other 'stuff' that I'll need to get through a family gathering..."

"Man. You are a hohoho, I hope you know."

"And you wouldn't have me any other way."

"Oh, I will be having you in _all_ the ways. If Christmas is coming early, then so are you."

"Mmm, we'll just see. Though this is starting to sound like the opposite of what I first asked for."

"And yet you don't really sound like you care."

"Well, to be honest, I _had_ abbreviated when I said I wanted to sleep. I meant 'with you.' So that all works out."

"Happy to hear it. Now then. To further prepare you for our special day tomorrow, shall I sneak up and tackle you from behind like--"

"Oh my good God in heaven don't even _consider_ \-- AH! I hate you!"

"Hee. You love me."

" _Do_ I?"

"Yep."

"...dammit."


	49. Haircut

**A/N:** I wrote this one for Dangersocks ages ago-- sorry it took so long to post!

**XXX**

“Ooo. Ooo. Ooo, no, not that one. Don’t—! Okay. Okay, good, that one is fine. You can cut—not that one, Earl! Be careful!”

“Sweet Elder Gods, Cecil,” Earl snaps, exasperated, as he fluffs a handful of dark curls. Before him, a weary scientist is slumped over a lab table; behind him, Cecil is fluttering to and fro, hovering awkwardly and making a litany of worried noises. The scoutmaster tosses the latter a glance as sharp as the scissors he holds. “Who has the Haircutting Badge, you or me?”

“You know I was always more interest in nail art,” Cecil retorts, snippy. The clippers Earl uses are snippy, too. Cecil winces, hisses, then relaxes again as he assesses the damage and decides it’s Not Bad. “And you have to admit, it’s been ages since you’ve practiced on a specimen like this.”

“I’m n-not… not sure I… I really l-like that t-term…” the prone man mumbles against the smooth of the counter, his breath misting atop its cool surface. The two caring for him pause at this, sharing a concerned glance.

“Oh dear. I apologize. Was that not scientific enough? Is there another term of gender or species that you’d prefer?” the radio host poses, nothing if not polite. As always, Cecil speaks with the sort of neighborly concern that one would very much expect to hear in so small a town… He just uses words that the scientist very much does _not_ expect to hear. Here or anywhere, frankly.

“I… Carlos is f-fine,” he rasps, carefully peeling one dark eye open to regard the couple currently regarding him. “Um… n-not to be rude, b-but… can I… can I ask what y… what you’re doing…?”

“Hm?” Cecil—ever exuberant, from what Carlos has observed— flicks a glance between the scientist and the redhead, shifting himself against the latter’s back. In that same moment, lanky arms curl loosely around uniformed shoulders; the radio host clings as if shock has forced him to find a way to steady himself. “Goodness! Do you not remember? Oh, Early Bird, he doesn’t remember!” 

“That’s not surprising. What with trauma and all,” the other assures, placing a calming hand atop the knot of Cecil’s fingers. Though his voice is not nearly as sonorous as his companion’s, it is somehow… lower. Deeper? No. Perhaps it just seems that way in comparison, what with how steady and calm as it is. Carlos concentrates on its smoothness as he is told, “You asked Telly for a haircut. But everyone knows, Carlos, that hair is connected to life-force.”

“It…” He blinks. “What?”

“Hair is connected to life-force. Isn’t that science? Hair is made up of dead skin cell, yeah? Mostly dead skin cells. Starting from a certain point. So, essentially, hairs are parts of you that have died. The faster they grow, the faster your body is dying. But again, that’s only from a certain point. The roots are alive, right? And a little past that. So, it’s only _mostly_ dead. That means that cutting it is like… Like if you have a jammed straw, and then you cut that. Life-force is able to seep right out of your brain. Like juice,” Earl clarifies, with a patience that goes a long way in clarifying the scoutmaster uniform he wears. Listening to him speak, nonsensical though his explanation had been, Carlos feels strangely like he might learn all the secrets of this earth. Maybe even of other earths.

Cecil, on the other hand, smiles as if he holds all the mysteries of the universe. He nestles like the Cheshire against the redhead’s cheek, nodding when appropriate and making encouraging little sounds.

“B… but that… That doesn’t…” Carlos hesitates, not wanting to argue with his apparent rescuers, but also fairly certain that is Not At All how science works. “But then… How come you…?”

“Badge,” Earl states, as if this should be all the reassurance that the scientist needs. But seeing that it is not, he adds, “I have been trained to know what hair is important and what length is safe. Telly, on the other hand, is insane. And probably hoping to slurp up a bit of extra life force. Rent has gone up again, and I hear he’s been syphoning when and where he can.”

“That Telly,” Cecil growls, brow furrowing more and more deeply the longer he thinks on it. “I should have a mob drive him out of town. It’s just not right what he’s doing.”

That much Carlos can agree with. It is certainly not right. In many ways. He considers those ways in detail as he gives his head a rolling loll; his face flops, his left cheek sticking where his right had previously lain. “So… D-do you… like… cut a lot of hair, then…?”

“Well… Uh, no,” the scoutmaster confesses, a touch sheepish. Cecil, almost possessively, moves his nuzzling up Earl’s throat, so that he might smother himself in the lush of his companion’s vibrantly scarlet locks. “Most people in Night Vale, you know… They aren’t—um. What’s the best way to say this, babe?”

“Their hair doesn’t grow very fast,” Cecil coos, lashes fluttering cryptically. But for all that this says very little, Earl nods as if it should tell Carlos everything. “And I mean, frankly, a lot of people here kick it before that would even be a problem…? You may not have noticed, but our death toll is kind of high. But, like, me—I’ve never had to get a haircut. And Earl here, maybe… twice?”

“About twice, yeah. Maybe three times.”

“Oh, come on, now. You’re not _that_ much Lesser.”

“You jus—”

“I’m sorry,” Carlos interjects, with more volume and articulateness than he has thus far managed. He feels a bit impressed with himself. Maybe he’ll manage to look like a real adult again within the next few minutes—able to sit up and stop drooling on his own accord. “Um, but… lesser?”

“You mean _Lesser_ ,” Cecil corrects. Swiftly. Not curtly, exactly, but in a way that makes it clear that Carlos had just made a rather insulting gaffe. Earl reaches up to stroke soothingly down the radio host’s forearm, exposed beneath the neat roll of a shirt sleeve; if the tattoos that decorate the pale of the skin there are different than they had been before, the scientist chooses not to notice this. Much as he decides that he hasn’t got the energy right now to admit to himself that he isn't just dizzy— Earl’s freckles are definitely shifting. That all probably has something to do with… whatever it is that Earl is.

“Oh. Um… Lesser? Yes…? Right, um… Yeah, sorry, but… What is that? Are you one, too? Are most of the people in this town…?”

“My, my. You sure have a lot of questions for someone who nearly lost a chunk of his soul,” the scoutmaster chuckles, putting aside his scissors and donning a taut smile in its stead. “But as you may have noticed, this town isn’t really a good place for people with questions. Bureaucracy, etc.”

“And history,” Cecil chirps, nodding somberly. Well, half nodding, half cuddling; he purrs—literally—as Earl cuddles back, carding his fingers through the other’s two toned hair as he eagerly shares the latest of the research he's done for next History Week. “After all of that horrible segregation nonsense we Americans put up with until the late 60s… well. It’s not really polite to draw attention to race, you know? And equality acts are in effect, so officially, we can’t really explain much to you. But,” he tacks on, with an abrupt and genuine cheeriness that nearly throws the scientist off guard, “you’re free to infer whatever you wish. And to study, and experiment. After all, the best results are always the ones you garner for yourself—you don’t need us telling you anything. We’d be better off helping you in other ways!”

Carlos frowns, mulling on this. He tries to lift his head; he manages half an inch before his temple loudly reacquaints itself with the tabletop. Well, progress is progress. And this does sound like progress. “Help me…?”

“Oh yes,” the radio host croons, his rich amethyst eyes twinkling. “We’re _very_ into science these days, Earl and I. And we’re always happy to help a newcomer!”

“Usually we bring a casserole. And, well, that’s actually what we did for you—or tried to, but then we needed something to beat off Telly with, sooooo,” Earl comments, trailing vaguely off. Carlos isn’t quite sure how to respond to this. Which is just as well, because Cecil always has plenty to say.

“Which means we owe you dinner anyway! So, how about it?” the radio host prompts, wearing a grin that has the scientist thinking of sharks for reasons that he cannot (or will not) name. “Would you like to have supper with us? For science, of course.”

Carlos considers the beaming couple as if they are insane. He considers the town, too, and wonders the same thing. Then he considers himself, and he figures he knows the answer.

But a good scientist never assumes. So.

“Supper sounds great. Thanks.”


	50. Texting

**A/N:** Typos and grammatical inaccuracies are here intentionally. You know, for that special texting flavor. ;)

  
**XXX**

CECIL

(Received):  
Hey early could you pick up sum dippers were out :(

(Received):  
*diapers but hey get dippin dots too while im thinking of it 

(Sent):  
No prob. How is she? 

(Received):  
Porny still 

(Sent):  
...porny? Still?? Cecil do I need to contact child protection services? 

(Received):  
OMG 

(Received):  
I put a space there i swear

(Received):  
And other letters 

(Received):  
P ornery. Pretty ornery. She's been crying nonstop 

(Received):  
Now I might cry to 

(Received):  
Ew ew ew ac ur sick

(Sent):  
Sure shoot the instant messenger. 

(Received):  
I just might for impugning my daughters honor 

(Sent):  
See, it will never not confuse me that you'll take the time to type "impugning" but not to add an apostrophe?

(Received):  
Just get the damn diapers


	51. Trip

"I don't wanna go."

"You're going."

"But I don't want to."

"Harlan, you're going and that's that."

"But Cecil!" Earl protests, arms and brow folded in a show of utmost petulance as he pouts upon their bed. Cecil, in turn, rolls plum-colored eyes, one hand braced against the small of his back and the other rifling through the closet. He tugs a third undershirt off of a hanger, gives it a thorough once-over, then tosses it onto the small pile of clothing accumulating beside his whining husband. "Why can't I just stay home?"

"Sweet darling, you love camping. And you love the scouts. And you love camping with the scouts," the radio host patiently reminds. Absently rubbing a palm over the small swell of his stomach, Cecil double-checks the wardrobe for any missed items. Tops, bottoms, belts, a police-issued stun gun, scorpion spray... That appears to be the lot. Time to ransack the drawers, then. "Baby is gonna change everything soon enough, so I'm not gonna let _you_ change everything before then. Not now, at least. You gotta live while you still have a life left."

"But what if something happens while I'm gone?" Earl moans, plucking listlessly at the threads of their quilt as his husband begins to load the mattress up with socks. One can never have too many socks. "What if you get hurt, or... Or if baby starts to kick or-- oh, dark gods forbid-- what if you go into labor?"

The Lesser sticks out his bottom lip, seconds away from whimpering. His Higher sticks out his right hip, affectionately exasperated.

"Earl, precious, I'm _barely_ into my fourth month," Cecil reminds flatly, turning to bodily deposit a wad of underwear atop the mattress. Once his hands are free of boxer-briefs, he reaches out to cradle his mate's quivering face, snorting with wry laughter when the other's expression grows histrionically teary. All the same, the kiss he presses to his husband's cheek is tender with understanding. "Baby and I will miss you too. But baby isn't due to make an official appearance for, like, another eight months. You, on the other hand, are due back in three days. I think the chances of the two of you missing each other are preeeeetty slim."

"But there _is_ a chance!"

"Well, _yeah._ But there's also a chance that andromeda will explode tomorrow, or that we're all no more than a giant's daydream, or that I'll burn my next slice of toast, but we all preserver under the delusion that everything will be fine, and so far, that's been working out pretty well, hasn't it?" Cecil reasons, idly fluffing the other's hair. Once those scarlet locks have been properly pillowed, he huffs softly and plops his chin atop Earl's crown. Then he plops his rear within Earl's lap, too, for good measure. "But I'll tell you what, cowboy. If-- by some strange twist of fate or rip in the temporal time stream-- I find myself going into labor before you get back, I'll just hold the baby in until you make it home. You know, like a fart."

The sobriety of this pronouncement is ruined by a choked spluttering. And, frankly, by the content of the pronouncement itself.

"Cecil--!" 

The radio host snickers as he feels his lover's face contort, a freckled nose scrunching in disgust against his mate's pale nape. Earl sounds mildly traumatized as he gags, "That's our baby you're comparing to bowel functions!"

" _You're_ being a bowel function," the Higher gleefully retorts, with the sort of childish giggling that would make a twelve year old look mature. Still, as he pulls back, Cecil regards his lover with adoration and earnestness, stamping his lips one last time to the redhead's forehead before cooing, "Nothing will happen to us, Birdie. More than likely, I'll just be siting here being jealous that we're not the ones camping with you. But those little boys need you too, and kindergarten taught me how to share... As well as how to load a wheellock pistol, but that's not quite as relevant, right now."

"Mmm, maybe not." 

The scoutmaster chuckles in spite of himself. But when he next smiles, it is with the sweetness of intention. Nervous intention, perhaps, but still. "...you promise you won't do anything dangerous? And that baby won't do anything awesome?" he presses, placing a palm on his beloved's rounding tummy. Cecil, his own hands layering over Earl's, makes a show out of considering this, shoulders shrugging noncommittally.

"Well, I dunno about that first thing... I _did_ have this new juggling trick I wanted to try with our bone saw and hatchet..."

" _Cecil._ "

Cecil chortles, sonorous and warm.

"All right, all right, I promise. And if, by some strange magic, the baby _does_ do something more than grow from the size of an ordinary lima bean to a slightly-larger-than-average lima bean, I will personally stalk you down in the sand wastes," the Higher swears, three fingers raised in a solemn scout promise. And though he speaks with a gravity that mocks the full of the situation, Earl knows that Cecil would follow through with this vow, should it for any reason be tested. Cecil would do all sorts of impossible things for him.

The Lesser grins, and does the impossible himself: he loves his husband even _more._

"...I still say we give stuffing you into my backpack a go," Earl teases as he cuddles close, nestling against his mate's warm chest and belly bump. He is answered by a hum, Cecil rubbing reciprocating circles into his lover's hunched shoulders.

"Hmm, no thanks. But you can stuff me in other ways~"

A snort. There is mirth in the sound, but very little surprise; Cecil's hormones have been as much in overdrive as Earl's anxieties, as of late. And when pitted one against the other, well--

"Really. Right here on the clean laundry?" the redhead drawls, with a dismissiveness that Cecil can't quite take seriously when he is already being lowered onto his back. The Higher grins, teeth somehow sharper than they had been mere moments ago.

"Well," he then retorts, long fingers knotting in mussed tresses as legs knot atop a knot of sleeves and knotting slacks, "would you rather have your uniforms smell like must, or smell like me?"

It is a silly question, as to be expected after so much other silliness. And Earl, suitably, provides an equally silly answer.

"Must you ask...?"

He is socked by a sock. Fairly, he contends. But it wouldn't really matter either way, in the long run: though that sock is the first article of clothing to go flying, it is certainly not the last.


	52. Sheepish

"Woooow. It's all so... Scientific. Like, for science, and stuff," Cecil eloquently observes, wide-eyed and wondering as he wanders around the lab tables. His curious features warp in the reflection of tubes and beakers and other electronic equipment, eyebrows arching high and face bowing low. "What do you use this for?"

"Hmm?" Perched atop his rolling chair, Carlos is chewing on the end of a pen and considering his very scientific and handy science clipboard, which he reportedly uses for science. And, occasionally, a stick figure doodle or two. When his guest-slash-subject starts to speak, the scientist glances up from a particularly intense drawing of a stick figure riding a jet ski over the crest of earlier formulas in order to see what the radio host is referring to. He then smiles and answers, "Oh. That's a seismograph. It's for measuring earthquakes." 

Cecil considers this response, one hand braced against his back and the other rubbing circles into his swollen belly. "Do we have earthquakes here?"

"According to the seismograph, you do."

"Hmm. Maybe it's lying for attention," the radio host says sagely, meandering further down the table. Pointing to a series of ornate canons that look like they belong in a militaristic doll house, he inquires, "Are these what they call 'cultures'?"

Carlos frowns faintly, swiveling around and resting his chin on the edge of his clipboard. "Well, I put those in Petri dishes because they're fragile, but... They're just from the miniature city below lane five."

"So it's _their_ culture, then," Cecil nods, fascinated, if a touch leery. Actually, he seems more disturbed by the relics of that civilization than he had been by the frozen strain of Ebola that he'd nearly added to his water thirty minutes ago. With as much swiftness as a pregnant--well, whatever he is-- can utilize, the radio host turns towards his friend's other projects, playfully trying to match his eyes to the gradient series of purple vials Carlos has displayed next to his laptop. "Hey, are you using all of those lab rats you showed me earlier? Cause I'm getting kind of hungry, and Early-- my husband, you know, the amazing and highly respected sous chef-- taught me this really good casserole recipe..."

He trails off, hopeful. Carlos politely slips his clipboard from beneath his chin to beneath his nose, hiding his grimace of disgust. He doesn't want to be rude, of course. But he also very much does not want to eat rat. Especially not those bred to test the effects of prolonged radiation on a body. "Uh, sorry, Cecil, those rats are all necessary for science. Everything in this room is necessary for science, really, and therefore cannot be eaten."

"Not even those Cheetos?"

" _Especially_ not those Cheetos." 

"Oh," Cecil grunts, disappointed but acquiescent, as he lowers himself into a comfortable gap between a microscope and a ream of old notes. His Tattoos undulate atop his hands, breaching the surface of his skin in small, protective waves as he strokes absently at his stomach. "I guess I'm still a bit ignorant about science. Like, I had _no_ idea that things like nuclear generators and stuffed lambs had scientific applications!"

As he speaks, the radio host nods to the items in question, one bolted to the floor near the closet and the other resting innocently upon Carlos' desk. Carlos starts a bit at this, visibly torn between commenting on both observations when he realistically knows he can only respond to one. He waffles, open mouthed, for an awkward minute... Then he swallows and turns a dusky shade of pink, perfectly matching the ribbon wound around the toy's plush neck. 

"Uh, actually," the scientist admits, clearing his throat with an appropriately sheepish grin, "I take it back. Everything in this room is necessary for science except for _that_."

"Huh? Really?" There is a genuineness to Cecil that still manages to catch Carlos off guard, sometimes--even after two years of friendship. The radio host cocks his head, gaze bright and ingenuous, as with heartfelt interest he asks, "Then what's it for?"

Carlos immediately blushes.

"That's for... Er, personal reasons, I guess? Well, it's for you, anyway. And, um, _you_ ," he adds, gesturing shyly at Cecil's distended stomach. Readjusting his hold on his (highly illicit) pen, Carlos twists-- both to hide his flushed expression, and to grab the doll behind him. Once it is in his hands, he lobs it lightly towards his startled companion, grinning sweetly when Cecil starts. And blinks. And regards both the lamb and the scientist with so much bemusement that Carlos-- impossibly-- feels more and less embarrassed at the same time. Flustered but warm, the scientist chuckles and explains, "It's a present. I had one just like it when I was a baby... I mean, mine was white, not aubergine, and it didn't have teeth or wings or-- um, anyway, I loved mine, so, I dunno, statistics indicated that your baby might like one, too?" 

The scientist shrugs, fairly certain that this is how gift giving is supposed to go. He is also fairly certain that he'd managed a decent interpersonal exchange. He is also, _also_ fairly certain that Cecil tearing up is a good thing. That _is_ a good thing, right? Yes, it must be, because now his friend is squealing and beaming and whipping out his phone to Instagram the moment, which science has proven to be a positive reaction to any given stimuli.

Carlos chuckles as Cecil strikes a silly pose for his selfie, then nods in affectionate acknowledgment when his friend cuddles the plush, pets his tummy, and offers a heartfelt and very grateful:

"Neat!"


	53. Seven Days

**A/N:** Have more "not-actually-Eternity-Vale-because-I-have-zero-right-or-authority-to-claim-it-as-such-but-in-my-head-that's-the-universe-this-is-set-in" Cecearl plus Laura. Fun fact that no one will really care about: I imagine Cecil's coworker/friend Dana being Laura's surrogate. (Or you can imagine Laura having been adopted. That's equally cool.)

**XXX**

**MONDAY**

“Do you really think these will help?”

Earl frowns curiously, holding aloft a tiny pair of panties with a streak of glitter bedazzling the bum. Across its front, a series of curlicue letters spell out MONDAY in cheerful shades of pink and purple. It's very... sparkly, as underthings go. Cute though, the scoutmaster decides. The undies' variegated brethren are waiting in the wicker laundry basket at his feet, ready to be folded and stashed in the toddler’s dresser drawer. 

At the moment, said toddler is doing exactly that—toddling around the living room. As she goes, she lugs the long-suffering Khoshekh along in her chubby arms, auburn ringlets bouncing around her dusky face. She giggles silently as she trundles, the cat bating at her curls. 

Cecil, having abandoned his laundry duties, is recording the scene on his cell phone. But though he had mysteriously missed all of Earl's requests to pair up the socks, he does, at least, hum a response to his husband's question, chewing on the corner of his grin.

“Well, they can’t hurt, right?” the radio host reasons, still fairly pleased with the purchase. Though it will never be his favorite store, Walmart comes through, once in a while. “Time is weird for kids. This will help to give Lo-Lo some working concept of it.”

The redhead tosses Cecil a bemused glance, even as he tosses the folded underwear back into the bin. “That’s… kind of deep for a three year old. I think at best they'll help her remember the order of the days. I wouldn’t waste any effort hoping for much beyond that.”

“Should I hope for a pony instead, then?” Cecil grins cheekily, only to wind up with a face-full of mismatched socks. 

**TUESDAY**

“Lo-Lo, I know you’re proud of them, but let’s be polite, shall we? This is _not_ what Sesame Street meant by sharing,” Earl scolds, tapping his daughter’s wrist in reminder as—for the fifth time that day—she hefts her little dress above her little head to show off her little panties. The TUESDAY pair is green—mint and emerald, which are her favorite colors. Apparently, they are _also_ the favorite colors of three of the kids at her daycare, a fact that Laura had learned after stripping for them.

Earl expects to be receiving a call from her caretakers, but for now, they really need to get groceries and go home. Preferably with all of their clothing properly on.

“Sorry about that,” he apologizes, pulling his daughter away from the man that she had so randomly, happily flashed. This town being what it is, Earl half expects some kind of moral tirade or patronizing lecture about controlling his child, but the stranger in question merely waves off the redhead’s concerns, his wide-eyed surprise melting into an understanding smile.

“I have little ones of my own,” the man chuckles, standing from the crouch he’d sunken into to talk with Laura. He pats her head, and Laura gestures excitedly about how he smells like waffles, and how she now wants waffles for supper, and can we have waffles for supper, Papa? “Actually, my Azzy would love such a set…”

“Walmart,” Earl helpfully supplies.

His daughter helps, too, with a reminder of what the undies look like. 

“Laura, no!”

**WEDNESDAY**

Though Laura is not physically capable of screaming, that has never stopped her from being able to make a great deal of noise.

“Baby, you can wear them next week,” Cecil reasons, tossing the sunshine yellow panties into the laundry with the rest of her stained clothing. Naked and sobbing, the toddler shoves at her father’s leg and generally makes a mighty fuss, pounding her fists against the washing machine and slapping at the walls.

“That’s what you get for trying to reenact infomercials,” Earl mutters from the door jamb, quiet but not quiet enough. His husband shoots him a bitter glare, as much a sticky mess as their daughter.

“Well, they shouldn’t advertise things that their product can’t do!” the radio host snaps, and Earl can already hear the editorial that’s being written in his head. “We’d have had more luck with a repurposed Slip-in-Slide than that stupid rubber bib… What a waste of money.”

“And juice.” 

“~~~~!” Laura mutely screeches, pushing herself up on her toes in a vain attempt to free her damp undies from the basket on the washer. The fact that her prize is a full meter out of her reach does not seem to bother her. Either that, or she is as single-minded as her Daddy and has yet to notice the inevitability of her failure.

Earl sighs, shuffling forward to heft a writhing toddler into his arms.

“I guess Wednesday has been postponed, Lo-Lo. Sorry about that.”

**THURSDAY**

THURSDAY's set is made from black cotton and decorated in a print of white kittens. Because of this, Laura had announced that she is now part-cat, and had decided to take her nap ala Khoshekh: in a sunbeam. Cecil had cooed with a shrillness that Earl had feared might wake the toddler, but no—neither that nor the ridiculous number of pictures that the radio host had snapped roused their child, who had sprawled herself across her floor and is now sleeping deeply.

Once Cecil has sufficiently documented the scene, they softly close the door to her bedroom and sneak into their own. And there’s an irony to this, Earl thinks—or at least some kind of humor in how they’re totally planning to soil themselves during a week so bizarrely focused on underwear. 

“Mmm… Hump day was yesterday, Cee,” the scoutmaster reminds with a teasing moan, cleverly working his fingers past the hems of jeans and boxer-briefs.

His husband huffs a laugh, the sound as sharp as the teeth grazing Earl’s throat. 

“Yeah, but it was postponed, remember?” 

**FRIDAY**

“F-R-I-D-A-Y,” Cecil signs slowly, enunciating each letter in a voice literally trained for such tasks. Cross-legged and attentive, Laura contorts her pudgy fingers into facsimiles of the same shapes, contentious _not_ to look at her panties for conformation. She doesn't want to cheat. And being vividly red, the word FRIDAY is readily visible beneath the oversized t-shirt that she is wearing as pajamas. Or it would've been, had she succumbed to temptation. But she does not, and is rewarded with an exuberant, “Excellent, Lo-Lo!”

Laura preens, sitting up straighter as she delights in the praise. Her pinkie and thumb still extended, she regards her hand for a moment… Then, with deliberate sweetness, lifts her pointer finger, too.

Cecil beams, tipping forward to stamp a kiss to her brow.

“I love you, too.”

**SATURDAY**

“Hmm... The figures displayed on the office calendar _do_ appear to correlate with the claim that you're making. I admit, it hadn’t occurred to me to verify that assertion, which wasn’t very professional on my part. I appreciate that a scientist of your caliber would be willing to collaborate data with me.”

The doctor nods, sage as ever, as he delicately takes Laura’s hands in his own and lowers her arms to her sides. Beneath the curtain of her skirt, the toddler is grinning toothily; Carlos cannot help mirroring his patient’s mirthful smile as her exasperated father snaps:

“All right, that’s it. We are buying you _all the pants_ , young lady.”

**SUNDAY**

“Well, then. Do you think that helped her learn the concept of time?”

Cecil hums—a sonorous, drawn-out sound, half-muffled by the chest he’s pressed his cheek against. Supine and sprawled, Earl is lounging lethargically across the living room couch; his husband had earlier belly-flopped atop him, and now they are wearily watching TV. There’s a tower of dishes to wash in the kitchen, and toys are scattered like land mines all over the floor, and the redhead is fairly certain that Khoshekh is never going to forgive them for the night’s Bathroom Debacle. But for now, the cleaning can wait. As can the tidying, and digging out an appropriate number of gourmet kitty treats to pacify their poor, abused pet.

For now, with Laura sleeping and Whose Line to watch, Earl is content to relax, idly drawing patterns up and down his husband’s back. 

Said husband makes another noise, caught somewhere between a contented purr and a wry snort. “If not, it certainly helped me. Weeks are really _long_ , aren’t they?”

Cecil yawns, nestling more deeply against Earl. His cheek is still crusted with streaks of spat-up carrot, and there is a film of lilac-scented suds webbed though his hair. Earl supposes that he is no better off, and makes no comment on the mess. He does, however, comment on Cecil’s commentary. 

“Yeah, but they still go by so fast… I wish they’d slow down, at least a bit.”

“Mmm,” his husband murmurs in sleepy agreement. Then he twists, readjusting enough to regard the redhead with a smirk and glittering eyes. “…I think I’d still rather wish for a pony.”

The fact that Earl laughs doesn’t keep him from shoving Cecil off the sofa.


	54. Shake Tramp

" _Try a little more, little more, little more!  
They slap you like a bitch  
and you take it like a whore!_"

Earl should not be surprised. He refuses to be surprised. He is decidedly not surprised.

Maybe he's a little surprised.

Not so much by the music in and of itself, of course. Marianas Trench has been a favorite of Cecil's since their wedding, and if there was ever any band worth breaking the stereo over, the radio host has claimed that they would be the ones. He's claimed this a few times, actually. Never seriously, but perhaps not quite as facetiously as his husband had assumed. Earl isn't certain at which decibel the speakers-- or their windows-- will blow, but what he does know is that he has been to quieter rocket launchings. He could hear the base thrumming all the way from the end of the drive. He picks up the melody in the garage. The song gains an underscore of screeching bed springs as he opens the door, and Earl thinks-- to Cecil's credit-- that maybe there _is_ an attempted launch going on in their home.

Well, maybe he's actually thinking of tossing his husband into space. But that's close enough.

" _Upside down, and around, and around!  
Just another piece  
Till you need another sound!_"

"CECIL!" the redhead bellows into the howling pop melody, hands clamped over his ears as he stomps down the hall. Sound waves gush from their open bedroom, drowning out all other noises. "CECIL, TURN THIS--!"

" _Try a little more, little more, little more!  
They slap you like a bitch  
and you take it like a whore!_

_Upside down, and around,  
and around!  
Just another piece  
Till you need another sound!_"

Earl should not be surprised. He really shouldn't. He tries very hard not to be. He tries equally hard not be charmed by the sight of his husband and six year old daughter jumping exuberantly on the bed, delightedly attempting to out-dance each other. They do this by way of over-the-top flailing and skirt-twirling, as well as the occasional dip. At some point during their spree, pillows had also been involved; a smattering of feathers and the suspicious absence of an old lamp attests to that.

Earl isn't surprised by that. He's not even disappointed, really; it had been a fairly ugly lamp.

What surprises him-- the sole shock, really, because coming home to scenes of utter lunacy is kind of par for the course, at this point-- is that Laura had been signing along as Cecil sang. Animatedly, and enthusiastically. 

And suddenly, that old google search that Earl had stumbled upon-- how to swear in ASL-- wow, yeah that made a lot more sense. 

" _Na nee na nee na nee nana_  
Na nee na nee na nee nana!"

The scoutmaster leans against the door frame, unsurprised again. Unnoticed, and likely to remain that way for another 24 seconds or so. 

And that's fine, he thinks, watching his family bounce and giggle. Let them have their fun.

It'll give them something nice to think about during the longest time-out in either of their lives.


	55. Dots

**A/N:** I really liked punkrockgaia's nearly-blind-Cecil-finally-getting-glasses idea, so I borrowed it a little. 8D; Much love and thanks to you, dear~

**XXX**

"Wooow!" Cecil coos, his already wide eyes made impossibly wider by the thick glass of his new spectacles. Awestruck, he touches his best friend's face-- reverently cradling Earl's chin as his spindly fingers fan over the other's soft cheeks.

"Wow, Early!" the younger of the two then says again, dipping this way and that to scrutinize his companion from every conceivable-- and unconceivable-- angle. "You're so lucky! I mean, like-- yeah, I guess I'm destined to be the Voice of Night Vale, which I hope means that someone really likes me... or maybe really hates me, but... but anyway, look at you! You must have the love of _everyone_ in the town! Maybe even everyone in the _country_!"

"I-- what?" Baffled, the blushing Earl blinks at his overly exuberant friend, not sure if he is charmed or disturbed by the fact that he can see himself mirrored in those magnified eyes. He decides on charmed. Mostly because he finds Cecil charming. But also because the sight of his reflection clears up a lot of the scout's confusion. Snorting with affectionate laughter, the fourteen-year-old places his broader palms atop Cecil's, then slides those hands gently away. 

"Cee, these are freckles. I was born with them," Earl explains, abusing his playful hold on Cecil's wrists by making the other lightly smack himself. Cecil squeaks, mockingly affronted. "No one gave them to me. They aren't red dots."

"Really?" The younger frowns, squinting. He pushes himself onto his tiptoes, leaning closer. Then, brow furrowed in concentration, he makes a proper show out of examining the liberally sprinkled speckles scattered across his best friend's skin. They are circular, and permanent, and nearly as ginger as his flaming hair. 

"...are you _sure_? They look just like red dots."

"So do pimples, but they don't mark what you love, either. Unless God is a really big fan of greasy teenagers, I guess."

The shorter of the two considers this. And Earl. And some other deep, musing sort of thought, the content of which the scout couldn't possibly begin to guess at. At least, not until Cecil-- with a sudden and startling swiftness-- closes that final gap between them: shoving upward to kiss his friend on the tip of his nose.

" _Eh_ \--?!" 

Flustered and reeling, Earl trips gracelessly back-- the full of his face feeling as if it had been set alight. In the shine of Cecil's mischievous gaze, the scout can see that he has flushed a blazing, burning scarlet; the pulsing ruby hue leaves stains everywhere. It leeches, as if from his flaming locks, down the tips of his ears to the bones of his clavicle, reddening everything in between. Spluttering, squeaking, Earl finally manages a shrill, "Ce-- Cecil...?!"

The other grins. 

"A red dot," he simply decrees, his stare pointed and giggle impish. With fingers freed during earlier histrionics, Cecil taps at his own cheek, leaning hopefully forward. "You should put it on what you love."

And, well. It isn't Dot Day. Even if it were, Earl has no dots to give. He has nothing to give, really. 

But when he plants a kiss to Cecil's cheek, he grins to see that the other gains two round red "dots" all the same.


	56. News

**A/N:** Behold! A shameless ripoff of this [tumblr post](http://anachronisticsiren.tumblr.com/post/96070723876/fangdecay-captainamericaisavirgin).

**XXX**

Breakfast is a quiet affair in the Harlan-Palmer household. Cecil, a natural night owl, tends to spend the meal half-asleep over his favorite cat-print mug. Earl, fully awake, has a penchants for productivity and uses the time to read the paper. And Laura, caught somewhere on the scale between her fathers, yawns around mouthfuls of Flakey-Os as she blearily finishes her algebra homework.

The newspaper rustles softly as Earl flips the page. It is not the only soft sound to fill the sunny kitchen. 

"Heh," Cecil chuckles, in a breath as raspy as his stubble as tired eyes catch upon the bolded headline. Something technological-- too complicated and/or boring to process properly at 7 AM. All he can manage is improperness. Which goes far in explaining why his mouth has twisted into a dirty little smirk, amusement darkening his dimples as some inappropriate thought occurs to him. He snuffles again, snickering. And Earl, shocked to hear his husband sound so _alive_ before his third cup of coffee, cannot resist glancing at the headline himself: 6,000 RIM Jobs On the Line.

Wow. _Really._

Earl levels the leering Cecil a flat stare, kicking him gently beneath the table. Come on now, his glare reprimands. There is a time and a place, and it is not when their daughter is right--

They freeze. Laura freezes-- pencil poised above her notebook and bottom lip caught between her teeth. She is grinning. No-- she had been grinning. No-- she had been _laughing._ Her eyes are large and she had not been watching her parents' antics. Nope. Like Cecil, like Earl, she had glanced at the paper, noticed the poorly phrased headline, and she--

The three stare at one another, unblinking. Mortified. _Knowing._

Good God.

Earl nearly rips the page in his haste to turn it. Cecil-- wide-eyed and suddenly, completely awake-- drops his gaze to the depths of his cup. Laura has never found algebra so fascinating.

Overall, breakfast is a very, very, _very_ quiet affair.


	57. Caught

"Earl...? ...Eaaaaarl?"

"Mmm? Cecil, did you say something? Come here-- I'm in the kitchen."

"Actually, uh... I need you to rescue me."

"Huh? Rescue you? From what? Where are you?"

"I'm in the living room..."

"What, being smothered? What's wrong with your voice?"

"Er, well..."

"Did you get your head caught behind the sofa again?"

"No, I didn't!"

"Cecil, I'm in the living room now."

"...yes, I did."

"Cecil..."

"Don't look at me like that! I did it out of love!"

"Okay, one, I am looking at the ceiling in exasperation right now, not at this impression you're doing of Pooh Bear being stuck in Rabbit's hole-- _don't_ make an entandre out of that."

"Boo. You're no fun."

"And two, I told you-- Khoshekh is just messing with you! He is totally capable of getting himself out from behind the couch."

"Well, I know that _now_."

"Pretty sure you knew that _before_ , too. Since we had this same conversation just last week."

"Humph. If I'm not allowed to make lurid jokes at the expense of beloved children's characters, then you shouldn't be allowed to lecture me for worrying about my cat."

"The cat who has made himself at home on top of your protruding butt?"

"..."

"You know he's cleaning himself right now."

"Do I want to know what part of himself?"

"Probably not."

"Damn cat! A pox upon you!"

"A pox upon _you_ , more like. You were kinda asking for it when you decided to name a kitten after a great plague. And now look at you-- trapped in the dark."

"But hey, bright side-- I found a penny."

"Woah. Well then."

"And, much like the cursed of Egypt, I am not without an attractive godsend bearing a huge rod to help me to safety."

"...I think I prefer you blaspheming against Winnie the Pooh to actually blaspheming. Although I appreciate the compliment."

"Anytime. Now help me out before I start making cracks about burning bushes." 

"Hm, I dunno. Khoshekh isn't done washing his balls yet, and you know how he gets..."

"C'mon. I'll pay you."

"What, a whole penny?"

"Well, if that's not good enough for you..."

"How about you just promise not to let the damn cat outsmart you again?" 

"I will make a concerted effort."

"That's all I ever ask."


	58. At Supper

**A/N:** Punkrockgaia had a headcanon about Eternity Vale Cecil's eating habits. I tried to fic it for her. I hope she-- and the rest of you-- like it. :)

**XXX**

"Cecil, come on now. You haven't eaten all day," Earl rebukes, legs hooked and arms crossed as he stares down the dinner table at his husband. Said husband is poking listlessly at his mashed potatoes, pushing them into his peas and applesauce and up against his roast. Slouched and grumpy, one hand cradling his cheek, Cecil looks like a petulant five year old. He is acting like one, too.

"I _did_ eat. I had some rice pudding at lunch," he grouses, the retort slurring in the corners of his warped mouth. A discarded fork clatters against the porcelain of his plate with a shrillness muffled only by a wad of smushed spuds; his chair groans along with him as he slumps against its back. "I'm just not hungry now."

"You've got to eat _something_ ," Earl insists, dragging his seat closer to the other's. With his own spoon, he scoops up a bit of gravy and meat and offers it to Cecil, grinning winningly. "Come on, then! Open wide for the choo-choo train, Cee-Cee~"

Cecil levels his husband a stare flat enough to serve as railroad tracks. "Cee-Cee" does not open wide for the choo-choo train. Instead, he drones:

"You have _got_ to be kidding m-- _umph_!"

" _There_ we go!" Earl cheers, his lilted voice caught somewhere between encouraging coos and impish laughter. He slides the cleaned spoon out from between Cecil's lips, grateful for his husband's inability to keep his mouth shut and his snark to himself. "Was that so bad?"

Cheeks bulging, eyes narrowing, the radio host glowers, nodding vigorously. Too bad Earl decides at that same moment to give the ceiling a scrutinizing once-over. You know, in case they'd sprung a leak on this dry autumn evening. 

Hm. He doesn't see anything. He doesn't hear anything, either.

"Silence means no!" Earl jovially decrees, scraping up another bite of supper to serve. Annoyed, Cecil gulps hard and starts to protest--

" _Earl!_ I don't wa-- _gmmph_!"

"Thaaaat's it. Don't spit. Swallow... Just like that. Always a good boy, aren't you?" the redhead teases, his smirk caught between his teeth as he valiantly tries not to snicker. Cecil, now flushed faintly pink, weaves a shield out of his fingers before attempting to speak again. Fool me once, etc.

"All right. I ate. Happy now?" he demands, diligently guarding his face. His husband-- an eye peeled for any slip-ups or openings-- hums and shrugs, lightly tapping his foot.

"Not particularly. You barely had a mouthful, in all," Earl chides, a point he emphasizes by holding up another tiny bite of potato. "You're going to shrivel up and die at this rate. And we can't have that-- I still have plans for you. I'm going to need help painting the garage this weekend."

Cecil moans again, pathetic and nearly pleading. Apparently starvation is preferable to chores. "But think-- if I kicked it, you could buy a dirt bike after collecting my insurance money!"

"Hmm. Tempting. But if you were dead, who would worry about me as I sped recklessly through the woods without a helmet?"

"That new scientist in town, maybe? He seems nice."

"Ooo. True. And he does have great hair," the scoutmaster agrees, chewing on another smirk. "I bet he'd be happy to help me paint the garage, too. Well then, on second thought-- I guess you can shrivel," Earl decides, cheerily popping the mash into his mouth. 

"Wha--?!" For the first time since setting the table, Cecil shows an actual interest in his plate. He grabs its edge, tugging it sharply closer to himself as he gawks at his husband, affronted. "Ea--!" he then begins, half-choked on emotion--

But cuts himself off as he starts to half-choke on other things, instead-- as tongue and potato are both pushed into the gaping hole of his mouth. Cecil squeaks, disgusted; he can taste the redhead's amusement as much as he can sour cream and chives. ABC food-- _Ew!_ He shudders and resists, but Earl's lips remain pointedly sealed to his-- pressed tight against him until Cecil gags down what had been offered. 

Excellent. 

Or, you know, the opposite of that.

" _Gross!_ " the radio host cries, sputtering and spluttering when he is finally released. He pulls a face, shaking with something that he refuses to acknowledge as any sort of laughter. Because really. Disgusting. "Being an Early Bird does _not_ permit you to feed me like one!"

"Then eat on your own, chickadee," the scoutmaster commands, affectionately exasperated as he forks over his spoon. "Or there'll be no dessert."

This perks Cecil's ears. And other things. "What's for dessert?" he asks, slightly less begrudgingly as he snatches up the proffered utensil.

Earl's leer is sweetly saccharine as he settles it atop his wrist.

"Whipped cream."

"...oh." Cecil licks his lips, knowing eye candy when he sees it. Knowing bribery when he sees it. But of all the things he sees, he doesn't see a point to shame. Not anymore. Especially not after having been forced-fed. "Well. I guess I can stuff myself if it means you stuffing me."

His husband snorts, the sound effectively shattering any illusion of sexiness. 

"Classy, Palmer," Earl then grants, sarcastic and smiling, as he presses a kiss to Cecil's crown. "Now finish your damn food."


	59. Drinks

**A/N:** This is all on Dangersocks.

**XXX**

"What can I get you?" the waitress asks, cracking her gum and jutting a hip. The provocative pose reveals smooth strips of tanned skin, framed on either side by a crop top and miniskirt. At any other booth, such a presentation might encourage her patrons to shell out a little more; she has a feeling that such tricks won't be getting her far at this table.

"I'll have another Redheaded Slut," declares one of the two men, his voice smooth and sonorously pleasant over the bar's general shrillness. His smile is equally smooth and pleasant as he glances over at his companion, who is frowning faintly in return.

"'Another'? Did you order before I got h-- _Cecil!_ " the freckled one scolds, his expression of fleeting confusion ousted by a flush as vibrantly scarlet as his hair. His date-- Cecil, apparently-- wafts the squeaked rebuke away with a breathy chuckle. The waitress regards the flirting pair as she regards all other couples: with the detached professionalism which comes from knowing that flirting won't get her extra tips. She shrugs, jotting a note on her memo pad.

"We call them Ginger Bitches here," she tells Cecil, nodding towards the menu. He considers this revelation with polite interest.

"Oh, I save that for the bedroom."

His boyfriend, in turn, considers the sticky grain of the table. Intimately. Or, at least, he seems to, what with the way he's slammed his head against it. Beneath the ruffled mess of his splayed tresses, his ears are literally glowing crimson. The heat of his embarrassment is palpable. The waitress thinks about asking someone to crank up the AC, or at least to toss her a bottle of sunscreen.

"Earl? Early, this poor lady has other rambunctious drunkards to deal with. You gonna order, Bird?"

Prompting as much as he is smirking, the one named Cecil gently kicks at Earl's shins beneath the little table. The waitress suspects that it will become a game of footsie the same instant that she turns away. She rolls her eyes as the freckled man grunts.

"Hmmm, I don't think they have anything by that name here, baby. Try again. Use your words, this time."

Earl makes another strangled noise in response to his boyfriend's teasing, lanky arms wrapped around his flaming head. To his credit, though, he does manage to use his words as he next whimpers, "Can you just... Order for me, please."

The request has Cecil purring. Leering. Hooding his sparkling eyes, he twists towards the waitress with all manner of sophisticated grace, planting his chin in his palm as he nonchalantly decrees, "He wants a Blowjob."

The waitress arches a single eyebrow. "In the bathroom, if you must."

"Clever," Cecil compliments, his velvet chuckle successfully muffling the sound of his date choking on air. "But I did, in fact, mean the drink. He'll have a Blowjob, then a screaming orgasm."

"The drink?"

The man's sharp grin gains shaper teeth. 

"No."

On the opposite side of the booth, Earl bleats a mortified, helpless little noise. A mortified, helpless, _aroused_ little noise. Right, then. Making a mental note to dig out additional disinfectant for the restroom, the waitress repeats her customers' order and then takes it back to the bar. 

She is not in the least bit surprised to find the two missing when she returns with their drinks.


	60. Costume

**A/N:** Again, my thanks to Dangersocks for reminding me of things. :)

**XXX**

"All right, then-- ready to pick out this year's candy-maker?" Cecil asks, easing to a stop a plastic trolley full of more girl than groceries. Cross-legged between a carton of milk and a jar of crunchy peanut butter, an overeager Laura looks up from the temporary distraction of a Lucky Charms cereal box; said box and all of its mundane puzzles are frisbee'd from the cart as she notices their proximity to the Halloween aisle.

They have arrived.

With a silent shriek, the six-year-old thrusts out her arms, flailing them like a drowning man might when being attacked by Jaws. Help. She needs help now. She needs _out_ now. She is willing to risk pain and injury to be out now. She will take the jump if she has to.

Luckily, she does not have to. Rolling his eyes, Cecil chuckles fondly and heaves his daughter out of the basket, setting her thrashing legs gingerly upon the ground. He has barely loosened his grasp upon her underarms when she takes off, ricocheting through Walmart like some kind of pigtailed pinball. Her sneakers squeal shrilly, her vibrantly pink ballerina skirt flouncing as she runs back and forth, rack to rack, costumes and props sent flying to the floor like the clothing from Daddy's closet when he's trying to choose an outfit to impress Papa.

Laura is very much her Daddy's daughter when it comes to clothing. Both in terms of style, and in her near maniacal determination to find exactly what she wants.

"Lo-Lo, that's rude," Cecil warns as he strolls up beside his frenzied child, his own skirts whispering about his heels. He crouches enough to pluck a maroon boa off of the dirtied floor, as well as a few of its feathers from the girl's curls. Laura responds by grimacing, then spins to rip violently through the next display. 

"Laura!" Cecil scolds again, with a scowl not quite as impressive as his daughter's. There is a glimmer of staunched resolve in her eyes that the radio host can see begin to fester; her excitement is soured more and more by frustration as they near the end of the aisle. By the time she's reached the first displayed adult costume-- a banana, as well as a "sexy banana" for women--, Laura looks about to cry. She plops herself beside a bin of plastic pumpkins, glowering bitterly at a Hulk mask that she'd earlier sent skidding. 

"Laura?"

In the aftermath of that near-literal whirlwind adventure, Cecil frowns faintly, gathering his skirts to sit beside his daughter. "Baby, what's the matter?" he asks, the query as gentle as the poke that he gives the plump of her rosy cheek. It earns him a wriggle, but no response. "Sweetheart, you're being a brat. There are lots of cute costumes here. Even _I_ think so."

This, at least, is stupid enough an opinion that Laura deigns it worthy of a reply. She hunches her shoulders, disgusted, wildly shaking her head.

"No? Didn't you say you wanted to be a kitty, like Khoshekh?" 

She shakes again, scrubbing at bubbling tears. 

"Then what do you want to be?" Cecil wheedles, hefting the squirming child from the shelf to his lap. He folds his arms against the small of her back, simultaneously cradling her and giving her space to answer in the gap between their bodies.

She snuffles, glancing uncomfortably left and right. There are no onlookers. But even knowing that no one else is around fails to make her any less self-conscious. It takes her Daddy lifting his arms as a pseudo-shield to convince her to offer a begrudging response. 

"Mmm," Cecil nods, encouraging, as he follows the shy bend and fold of his daughter's trembling fingers. "Yes, Papa and I are going as Iron Man and Captain America. But that doesn't mean that you can't still be-- you do? Well, I know I saw a Thor costu-- no? It _has_ to be him? Why? ...oh. Oh, I see. Oh, Lo-Lo."

Cecil stamps a kiss to his daughter's damp face, soothing her hiccuped sobs with a warm hand against her back. "Baby, it's okay. Shhh, don't worry! We can make you a Hawkeye costume. And it will be the prettiest, awesomest, most Hawkeye-y Hawkeye costume there is! You'll look even cooler than Jeremy Renner." 

Laura sniffles snottily, but still manages to look incredulous.

"...yeah, okay, I can't promise that last thing. But it'll definitely be pretty and awesome and Hawkeye-y! All right?" Cecil prompts, smiling as he pushes them both back to their feet. "We'll get you a bow and a quiver and Papa can help you make different arrows... And won't he be pleased? You know what a nerd your Papa is, and you'll be so authentic! You'll have to sign a lot for everyone at the party so they can appreciate how accurate to canon you are, yeah?"

The trolley squeaks like a baby bird as Laura is set between a package of crackers and a packet of batteries. She settles into her pseudo-nest, a wet little smile on her lips as she nods-- and even signs-- that she will.


	61. Apparel

"What do you think?"

With a deft readjustment of his reading glasses, Earl glances up from his municipally approved book, staring down the length of his prone body to the foot of the bed. Poised before the open closet, Cecil is a vision in a garishly plaid suit and a gigantic feathered hat.

A horrible nightmare vision.

Earl's face remains impressively impassive as he licks a thumb, turning a page in his novel. "And what's that for, then?" he inquires gamely, giving the appalling apparel a lingering once-over. His boyfriend is looking more pleased with himself than usual; there is no doubt a reason for it. 

"It's for the next PTA meeting," Cecil says smugly, pulling taut the mustard yellow sleeves of his dress shirt. "I've been asked to head the finance committee for the upcoming Prom and Bomb. I figured, you know, being in charge of money and all, I should try to look like a million bucks."

"And a herd of doe for good measure?" Earl lightly adds, eyes lingering not-so-seruptiously on Cecil's hat. It has a veil, too, that hat. A veil woven from the same vibrant green thread as the suit, giving it the odd appearance of moss. Earl's smile gains innocence when his lover's stare becomes suspicious. He sets his tome aside as he assures, "That was a compliment. Can never have too many deer. You know, with the real estate market being what it is, and all." 

Settling back against the pillows of their king sized bed, the scoutmaster drapes one hand over his stomach and gestures with the other, twirling it in a demonstrative manner. "But I do think there's something just a touch off... Give me the full effect one more time?"

Compliant, Cecil does a little twirl, holding tight to his flopping cap as he spins. The plumage adorning its flaccid edge had previously been plucked from a peacock; the feathers shimmer in shades of emerald and puce as they catch the rosy light of the bedroom. 

"Hmmm," Earl contemplates, rubbing at his chin as he considers the outfit. "Okay, yeah. Now I'm certain. If I were you, I'd get rid of the hat. I mean, it's luxuriant, true, but the length of the crowning feather is a bit too dramatic. You might stab one of the PTA higher ups in the eye when turning around, and that's a one way ticket to Steve getting your seat."

The name alone is enough to convince Cecil to frisbee the hat to the other side of the room. His face has gained puce patches similar to the discarded feathers. "Not a chance, _Steve Carlsburg_...!" He growls, ruffling out his rumpled hair. Earl nods, sage and encouraging, as he watches the accessory fly. 

"I might also ditch the suit coat," the redhead mildly suggests, slipping his spectacles down the bridge of his nose and depositing them atop the bed stand. "It's classy, to be sure, but you don't want to look too fancy. Like, super important or no, it _is_ still just a PTA meeting in the school gymnasium. You don't wanna look pretentious."

Cecil mulls on this, frowning faintly at the fabric covering his arms. The jade-and-orange design had been emblazoned on what looks to be the repurposed cloth of an old potato sack. "I guess that's true," he begrudgingly agrees, slipping free of the jacket's coarse hold. "Diane Craton wore a brooch once and Susan Wilman convinced the others to see it as a concealed weapon and a call to war. We lost seven PTA members and one teacher in the Battle of the Blackboards." 

"And we'd hate to have a repeat of that," Earl solemnly decrees, watching as Cecil folds the jacket into a neat square. "Maybe you should lose the tie, as well, in case Susan tries to argue that it's a rope or a whip or something."

"Oh, good idea," Cecil agrees, quickly unlacing the umber knot of the aforementioned tie. "She's been in a particularly foul mood since the City Council banned those Freakenomics books she likes so much. Better to not give her any opportunity to start a ruckus..."

"Maybe a different shirt then, too?" the scoutmaster wheedles, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. It could be a sheepish gesture. It could also be the redhead literally bitting back a grin. It's difficult to say, even as Earl himself says, "Just because, you know, they recently released that study about colors and emotions. Like, how red makes people angry and stuff? Yellow makes them more mentally analytical and critical. I'd hate for some brilliant suggestion you make to be belittled or nitpicked because of the psychological commands of your shirt."

"Oh, wow. I hadn't even thought of that...!" Cecil gasps, quickly turning his attentions to the offending shirt. With adroit fingers, he begins to pick and pop the buttons free, shedding the layer as some reptiles might their skin. "I'm so glad I asked you about-- Wait..."

On the subject of skin...

"And those pants look a little ridiculous by themselves. You may as well kick them off, too," Earl finishes, his voice airy with bursting bubbles of laughter as Cecil looks down and finds that he is practically naked, his hands having already jumped up to loosen his fly. Damn Pavlovian responses! Irritable now, the radio host balls tight fists against his hips, canting forward. Unfortunately, this does nothing to help the situation with his slacks; they slide down his thighs and past his knees, puddling on the floor.

"Earl!" he rebukes, cheeks pinking cutely as his boyfriend's lengthy leer widens by literal teeth. "I can't go anywhere looking like this!"

"Why not?" the scoutmaster asks, with an innocuousness that only sharpens Cecil's glare. He raises his hands, both defensive and indicating. "You're still in a suit!"

"Yeah, my _birthday suit!_ "

"And a _very_ happy birthday it is," Earl comments, undeterred by his lover's spluttered scoffing. He sits up a bit straighter then, waggling a finger at Cecil as he adds, "But I do resent the implication that you couldn't go anywhere in the outfit I'm suggesting. That's not true at all. Maybe it's not PTA appropriate, but you could go to almost any beach in France! Or to a nudist colony... or to this side of the bed..."

The redhead waggles his eyebrows in invitation, arms open wide. Cecil stares, as barefaced as he is bare everywhere else. In a drawl, he dully retorts, "The only reason I would come over there right now is to thwack you with a pillow."

"However you feel like hitting on me, babe."

"Maybe I'll just smother you instead."

"As long as you straddle me to do it."

"Perv," Cecil snorts, gathering up his scattered outfit in order to dump it in the laundry bin. "If you're into erotic asphyxiation, then never mind."

"Too late, you already leave me breathless~" Earl teases through cupped hands as Cecil stomps out of their bedroom, clothing in his arms but still suspiciously absent from his body. Funny that. The scoutmaster has a feeling that his boyfriend will fail to find anything worth wearing in the laundry room, too. And it will hardly be fair for Earl to remain clad if Cecil isn't... 

For now, though, Earl proudly wears a grin, picking up his book and replacing his glasses. He doesn't need them to read the situation, of course-- but he does so love the feel of Cecil sliding them off.


	62. Surprise

"Earl! _Earl_ ," Cecil whispers, shoving at his husband's shoulder in the midnight gloom. The other's freckles respond more than he does-- scattering hither and tither as the Higher pokes at his mate's bare arm. Earl himself twitches. He does little else. Frustrated, Cecil gives his Lesser a sharper shake, one that matches the sharpness of his hissed, "Earl, did you hear that?!"

"Mgph...?" the scoutmaster answers, with as much eloquence as a man drooling into his pillow can muster. A single eye flutters to a dazed open; Earl peeps blearily up at his lover, frowning as his brain slowly processes Cecil's distress. "Whassit...?"

"I heard something," the Higher reiterates, the words breathless and hushed. His Tattoos have pealed defensively from his skin. The nebulous appendages undulate in anxious helices around his quivering limbs as he watches the scoutmaster wrestle himself from the hold of both blankets and sleep. "I heard something moving under the bed... I think it's a monster."

"Mmm...?" Earl scrubs enough drowsiness from his eyes to manage a mildly incredulous expression, albeit one softened by the gentle patience that comes from spending the grand majority of his free time handling terrified children. "Baby... It can't be a monster," he reasons, voice coarse, but calm. "Monsters don't exist on this plane of consciousness. Not until their feeding season next month, anyway. And even then, we just sprayed down the room with Eucalyptus Exorcism Febreze the other day."

"I know. I _know_ that," Cecil whimpers, his eyes indigo and round and wet with tears. They glisten more than the mysterious lights above the Arby's, and Earl feels more compelled to stare at them. "But I just... I'm sorry. Could you look? I'm scared."

The scoutmaster rolls his own eyes, even as he feels himself scoot obligingly to the edge of the bed. He is the one with the badges, after all. And municipal training. He may as well put all of that to use. Even still...

"You're being silly," Earl chastises as he leans over the side of the mattress. Upside down, he pokes his head and an arm beneath the doily lace of the decorative sheets, his rebuke muffled by the draping fabric as he continues, "You probably just heard a member of the Sheriff's Secret Police. I think I saw one posted beside the azaleaaa _aaaAAA_ \--!"

"EARL!" Cecil shrieks, clawing after his husband as an unseen, unknown force gives the scoutmaster a mighty _yank_. Limbs flail and sheets snarl as the redhead is heaved physically from the bed, shoulder and hip hitting the floor with painful, carpet-cushioned _THUD_ s. The Higher manages to scramble to the ledge at the same moment that Earl is sucked completely from view, disappearing into the darkness. A shrill squeak of terror wedges in the radio host's paralyzed throat as his frenzied mind spins, dizzying him with scenarios and options. He could dive after. He wants to dive after. But if does that, if he can't make it back, then who will--

Who--

Who or _what_ is that--?!

It is only a lifetime of applied practice that keeps Cecil from screaming loudly enough to break the city's very strict noise ordinances, not to mention a few windows. From somewhere beyond, somewhere _behind,_ a creature has risen from the impenetrable gloom; a silhouette has cast itself over the trembling Higher in shades of ebony. Its bulbous contours blot out the stars. Blackness paints the wall, and the floor, and the back of Cecil's head. The mysterious beast has risen from below, large and fanged and... 

...breaching? The Higher's horrified grimace becomes a politely bewildered frown as he stares at the oddly shark-shaped shadow. The oddly shark-shaped shadow which has begun to jump about upon the wall, behaving more like a Sea World dolphin than a denizen of the deep. It splashes playfully from shadow to shadow, waving its tentacles like the Sharktopus-creature that he had seen a trailer for earlier that night. 

It had not been a trailer he'd seen alone.

Cecil's stare is as flat as a poacher's spear as he turns fully towards the shadow-puppet, as well as the coils of prehensile hair that cast it.

" _LAURAAAA HARLAN-PALMEEEER_...!" 

The bed shudders as someone beneath it jumps, bashing the top of her head against the frame. The crack of skull on wood is muffled by a simultaneous scuffling of pajama-clad knees-- a nine year old diving for the door as her father dives for the edge of the mattress. He swipes at his fleeing daughter, catching her by the ankle as his Tattoos tangle around her curls, preventing her from escape. 

With a mighty grunt, the Higher hefts his child into a shaft of moonlight, growling as his narrowed eyes glow vibrantly violet. His offspring grins, sheepish and dangling. 

_I couldn't exactly hum the music, but I know you really like Jaws, so..._ little Laura signs, flashing a winning smile. A dazed Earl rolls out from beneath the bed, still knotted in silky tendrils. _Happy birthday?_

Cecil's luminous glower gains teeth. 

"You are so grounded."


	63. A Maze

**A/N:** Another prompt from Dangersocks. Thanks! Also, thanks to the dictionary.

**XXX**

"I don't understand."

"Well, it's a pun, you see," Cecil says cheerfully, double checking the snaps and harnesses of the carrier strapped to his friend's chest. Carlos, to his credit, squirms marginally less than the baby he's hefting, her weight counterbalanced by the knapsack full of science/diapers/scientific diapers on his back. He readjusts his grip upon the materials detector in his hand as Cecil's approach sets the machine whirling and beeping; over that tinny ruckus, the Eldritch being explains, "The joke is that the Native Americans once referred to corn as 'maize,' a homonym for 'maze.' I mean, I guess it's not so much 'funny' as it is 'redundant,' but..."

"No, that's-- I get _that_ ," Carlos reassures, his glasses glinting in the autumn sun as he tries to track the movements of his otherworldly friends. Earl is off somewhere behind them, purchasing tickets for the hay ride and yearly Lottery. Cecil is securing the last in a series of what appears to be deadbolt locks, wanting to be absolutely certain of Laura's safety. And Laura, Carlos' tiny goddaughter, is burbling up a foam of chartreuse spit, frothing at the mouth in excitement. It is both fascinating and mildly disturbing that those buttery bubbles are somehow dying patches of his lab coat. Not the patches that they touch, which would have been strange enough; no, they are dying random patches of his lab coat equally random colors. Carlos wonders about the logistics of it all as those hues seep between the fabric's threads, wet yet dry and puddling around his hems like spilled paints. He stands in a pool of dripped maroon and gold, sneakers clean and lips frowning as he protests, "I've seen corn mazes before. But that's just it-- I don't _see_ one here." 

Baffled, the scientist sweeps out an arm-- as much as he is able to, anyway, what with Cecil right there and so much weight upon his shoulders-- indicating the barren field upon which he and countless other Night Valians stand. Cecil, ever polite, looks to where Carlos points. Then he looks back at Carlos, wearing that affable expression he always does when his friend has said something particularly silly. 

"Well, they made it out of local corn, obviously," the Higher reminds, slipping his cell phone from his leopard-print fanny pack and leaning back to snap a picture of his daughter and the scientist. Carlos, as in most of the pictures that the radio host has of him, looks perfectly bewildered. Cecil obligingly expounds, "John Peters-- you know, the farmer? He grows the invisible kind."

"He... right, okay." 

Carlos sighs, deciding not to argue about the ridiculousness of 'invisible corn'. Not right now, anyway. Much like when eating a caramel apple-- a treat that, coincidentally, Earl has returned with, and has thrust cheerfully into Carlos' free hand-- it is better not to bite off more than one can chew at any given time. Best to focus on just one thing. "But see, the definition of a maze is 'a tour puzzle in the form of a complex branching passage through which the solver must find a route.' There is not so much as a passage here, never mind a branch."

"Actually, well... You know I hate to disagree with science," Earl corrects mildly, looping an arm through his mate's and offering a lopsided grin, "but the definition of amaze is _really_ 'to surprise and sometimes confuse (someone) very much.' And as you certainly seem surprised and confused, I'd say this maze is living up to its name. Right, Cee?"

Cecil smiles, too toothy and too wide. "He gets his way with words from me," he brags to Carlos, whose stare is so flat that some ancient civilizations might fear sailing off the edge of it. As it is, the only thing that goes sailing is Laura's lacy bonnet, her ponytail's ringlet managing to spring it free. The curl wobbles like a semi-sentient jack-in-the-box as her parents coo and laugh and rush off to retrieve the cap before little Lo-Lo's hair can start cutely attempting to poke holes into her godfather. 

"Right then! Shall we see if we can solve this year's maze?" Earl suggests once Laura's bonnet is securely back in place. He claps his hands-- freckles skittering-- and gestures grandly at the elaborate wooden signs that mark the entrance of an attraction that may or may not actually exist. But then, the existence of everything could be reasonably argued, so... Carlos pulls a face, prodding his materials detector in the vague direction of where corn should be. It makes a popping sound that he's never heard before.

"I still don't see anything," he feels compelled to comment as he waddles after his skipping companions, trailing caramel and colors in his wake. Cecil laughs, rolling his eyes back to his friend and his child.

"That's what makes it so difficult! You never know if you've hit a wall or not!"

"Ooo, I hope we don't get lost again..." Earl chuckles, feigning fright. His husband giggles in agreement, even as he twines their hands and rhapsodically waxes:

"I find that, as life in general leaves me feeling lost, there is some comfort in being able to pinpoint a source of blame, every once in a while." 

"This is true!" Earl chirps.

"This is _weird_ ," Carlos corrects, speaking primarily to the baby secured to the front of his chest. Laura, in reply, wheezes soundlessly, gazing up at her godfather with eyes as round as the bubbles she's spewing. It's a fairly attentive response, really. The scientist, in turn, huffs a breath of his own, shaking his head at it all-- at the odd little family in the odd little town with the odd little harvest festival-- but fails to dislodge the smile that has taken up residence upon his lips.

"Let's go, Mr. Scientist! We're not getting any younger! I mean, unless there's been an unscheduled temporal loop or something."

"A wh--? You know what, never mind. Coming, coming..." 

Taking a large bite of his apple, Carlos surrenders to the domestically insane, toddling off to join his friends in the invisible corn maze.


	64. Green

“Earl? Earl…?”

The broiling hiss of soup tureens and the rhythmic thwack of silver knives echoes throughout the bustling kitchen, the sounds of slicing, hacking, paring, and peeling underscored by clomping boots and rustling aprons. As per usual, the staff of Tourniquet is five minutes and one underdone soufflé away from a stress-induced Battle Royale, which would at least result in some very fresh black pudding for interested patrons. But those sorts of outbursts, however cathartic, only make more work for everyone in the long run—an update of the day’s menu would need to be created, and explanations given to the cannibalized’s family; there would be extra cleanup after closing to endure, as well as new staff to hire and train—so Earl is hoping that the restaurant doesn’t live up to its name today. _Really_ hoping. But he finds himself worrying about the futility of those hopes when he hears a familiar, yet highly unexpected voice say his name from somewhere that is _not_ the radio in the corner.

“Earl?” Cecil calls again—from beside the door, judging by his echo. He sounds distracted. Or maybe it’s Earl that is distracted, seeing as he is attempting to cut two hundred carrots into bite-sized pieces in thirty seconds or less without losing a finger. The sous chef thinks he manages a response of a sort—a grunt, at least, albeit a vague one— though it doesn’t carry well enough to serve its purpose. Or perhaps he hadn’t actually said anything at all. He can’t say for sure. Though he supposes he can assume the latter from the way that his poissonnier smacks him against the arm with a herring.

“ _Dude_ ,” the poissonnier prompts, staring at Earl with eyes as wide as the fish he’d just mistreated. This isn't overly shocking, as repartee goes. The poissonnier never says much beyond that juvenile bastardization of an expression, leaving the redhead to judge based solely on intonation whether he is annoyed at Cecil for being here, or at Earl for inadvertently ignoring Cecil. Probably the latter. The poissonnier does strike Earl as the oddly romantic type, despite his backwards baseball cap and ill-fitting jeans. But it hardly matters now. The redhead pulls a face, coming to terms with the fact that he'll have to endure the clinging odor of brine for the rest of his shift. His ten hour shift. Swallowing back a string of frustrated curse words, he calls out more audibly:

“Over here, Cee.”

“Earl!”

Though he hasn’t the time to get a proper look at his mate's expression, Earl can hear both confusion and relief within his voice; even when preoccupied, the sous chef's perked ears can easily pick out the click-clack of his husband’s favorite heels as they skitter across the linoleum floor. The sound is sharper even than the guillotine fall of Earl's knife. As the Higher hustles over, his Lesser again focuses on not hacking off his own fingers. Or Cecil’s, as a pair of jittering hands slide into Earl's peripheral vision.

“Earl,” the radio host says again—in greeting, this time—with a nervousness that Earl can only attribute to the fact that there are nearly two dozen highly irritable men and women rushing past-and-or-into him, all bearing scalding hot liquids, or daggered utensils, or both. “Earl, I _really_ need to talk to you. Like, right now. Before the weather finishes. Isn’t it your break?”

“No time today,” Earl tells him, speaking in that airy way that focused people do. The carrots are done and he’s got all of his appendages, but he’s three minutes behind schedule. He still has tomatoes and bell peppers and cockroaches to dice. “Can this wait? Kinda busy.”

“It really can’t. I mean, I guess it _could._ But it really _can’t,_ ” Cecil murmurs, contradictory and frantic. His painted nails scrape and drum at the countertop of Earl’s station, and it takes Earl a concerted effort not to snap at his husband for mucking up his workspace. He needs this place pristine, dammit, if only because he doesn’t know when he’ll next have an opportunity to sanitize it. But then, Cecil wouldn’t rush over from the station in the middle of a show if something wasn’t really bothering him; Earl may not be paying his mate his full attention, but he’s aware enough to realize that much. And so he bites his tongue, saying nothing as his Higher dips closer and whispers, “Look, is there a—is there like a broom closet or an execution chamber we can duck into for just a second?”

Earl sighs through clenched teeth, twisting to chuck his used knife at the distant wall. It _thud_ s into place beside countless other pointy things, its wooden handle singing against a bloodied cleaver’s. “Babe, I’m sorry, but—”

“ _Okay_ ,” Cecil interrupts, in a tone of understanding accentuated by desperation. He dances out of the way as Earl reaches for a new blade, only to lean all the closer after his husband has chosen a clean weapon from the armory drawer. To his credit, the radio host at least has the presence of mind to duck to the sous chef’s left, evading being accidentally elbowed in the stomach as the other returns to severing vegetables. “Okay, look. Just— um, you know how last week was my birthday?”

The redhead snorts, his eyes glued upon his cutting board but his mind taking a temporary step backwards. 

“I am aware,” he drones, not bothering to keep as hushed as Cecil does. It’s not like they’re really being listened to, anyway, what with another _seven_ five-course-meal tickets being brought in by a waiter. As it is, Earl’s drawl is nearly drowned out by his coworkers’ collective groan of exasperation. “I mean, seeing as I have been checking under the bed for Laura every night since then.”

“Yeeeeah, about that,” the Higher artlessly segues, his voice shrill with an awkward sort of panic as he presses himself even further into Earl’s side—either to entice his companion's notice, or to avoid the poissonnier as he begins to angrily chuck mackerel at the servers stupid enough to take orders from patrons. “You know how I, er, 'rewarded' you for being so brave afterwards? And how I ever-so-jokingly made that comment about killing Lolo and needing replacement children…?”

The sentence trails off, prompting and pointed. Earl is counting how many more onions he’ll need to coax from the gnarled fingers of the gnome in the refrigerator.

“Uh-huh, Cecil, I’ve really got to—”

“ _Earl!_ ”

The _crack_ of a stamping foot makes the sous chef jolt and start; he straightens, visibly in pain, as manicured fingers dig deep into his arm, nearly breaking the skin with a demanding _yank_. The Lesser gasps, almost bleeding; the Higher snarls, furiously demanding: “Look at me!”

"By the Masters— _Fine!_ I’m looking at you! What do you— _ow!_ ” Fuming now, Earl snaps his face towards his husband, eyes wide in vexation. Cecil, in turn, narrows his own gaze, detaching one clawed hand from his mate’s stiff shoulder in order to cuff him upside the head. 

“No!” the Higher rebukes, with an irritation that not only matches, but somehow exceeds that of his oblivious husband. He gives Earl’s arm a violent shake, heatedly begging, “Earl! _Look_ at me!”

The Lesser blinks. It’s a reflex, really, after being unceremoniously smacked. Beneath jammed lids, shock has his eyes shifting both colors and planes of observation; when they snap back open, tawny brown irises have been replaced by ruby and onyx and onyx and ruby. The shift speaks volumes as to his surprise. But if the hit itself had startled him, it is nothing compared to what Earl’s brain is processing now. 

The sous chef opens his mouth, lips quivering. He tries to close his hinging jaw, but can’t. Nor can he seem to lessen the bulging of his eyes as he stares openly at his fuming husband, features paling as he weakly observes: “…you’re green.”

“I’m _pregnant,_ ” Cecil hisses, the tendrils of his powerful amethyst aura tinged with gradient shades of emerald and jade. “During my show, I suddenly felt— like with Laura... I dropped my coffee all over the floor and—!” 

And whatever he did, Earl cannot be bothered to hear about it. Not now— not when there are so many other things to do. Not when there are so many other _important_ things to do. Like crush his husband up against his workspace, for example: kissing him so hungrily that, for a moment, Earl seems more like a customer than a cook. Himself the one who's startled now, Cecil squeals into his mate's ravenous mouth; his high heels slip from his feet in a clatter as he is half-hefted atop the counter, vegetable juice staining the seat of his freshly-pressed work pants. Instincts have the Higher wrapping his legs around his lover's lower thighs, the licentious reaction in no way deterred by the large bass that is dropped atop them a few seconds later. Perhaps it is a congratulatory bass. Perhaps it is a reminder to keep things work-appropriate. Perhaps the poissonnier is just insane.

Earl doesn’t really care, right then.

Cecil flutters his long eyelashes, flustered as his cheeks turn prettily purple. Tightening his hold around his husband, he licks at kiss-swollen lips, suddenly shy.

“So… Um, yeah, that’s… That’s what I had to say… Yup. Uh. Okay. I mean. No, I mean... Is that okay?” the radio host asks, adorably and uncharacteristically ineloquent. He is breathless and flushed, beautiful and pregnant. Pregnant _again._ Earl laughs, pressing one last kiss to the corner of Cecil’s mouth as the weather peters out.

“That is _very_ okay.”


	65. Cake

"Happy birthday, Lolo!" Cecil cheers, tossing handfuls of spangled confetti into the air. At least, Carlos thinks it is confetti... It's difficult to say, as saying anything depends a great deal on semantics. When he plucks some out of his hair a moment later, though, the scientist notices that all of the torn squares are the same pale beige color, thick as parchment, and bear fragments of archaic words and alchemic symbols. Readjusting his party hat, Carlos wonders if the artless circle that the pseudo-confetti has formed around Laura's high chair is really so artless after all. And is it glowing...?

Hm.

He considers the paper ring's bioluminescence and his potential need to break out of it, mentally debating whether or not scooting suspiciously away from a disabled one-year-old might be considered rude. Probably, he ultimately decides. So in the end, Carlos compromises with himself-- leaning a bit farther to the right as he toots his colorful noisemaker. Laura silently thrills at the sound and the sight, pudgy little fingers flexing for ribbons that undulate as wildly as her pigtailed hair.

"Happy birthday!" her other father echoes, parading from the kitchen with a cake as big as a float. The fact that it's been crafted to look like some sort of muppet only furthers its resemblance in Carlos' mind, though he's fairly certain he's never seen Elmo or Cookie Monster's faces contorted in such agony before. Or beheld candy eyes so full of existential angst. He's also pretty sure that the Sesame Street he grew up with would've discouraged the use of ritualistic sacrifice, but judging from the edible rope of licorice bound around the critter-shaped sweet, the program had changed a great deal since his youth. 

Carlos feels a quiet concern for the future of Night Vale's children as Cecil begins to clap, squealing encouragingly as Earl sets the monstrous dish atop the dining room table. There is a distinct look of pride upon the redhead's freckled face, but it is directed more at his daughter than at his culinary creation. 

"I can't believe it's already one year later," Cecil coos as his mate settles the gigantic pastry before their burbling child. The Higher splays his lavender-tipped fingers against his cheeks, looking so ridiculously lovey-dovey that even Earl has to roll his eyes. "Why, it seems like only yesterday that I was thrashing about in indescribable agony, blowing out stereo systems and power lines with my screams... and Early Bird was rushing me to the Ritual Rock before baby had a chance to rip my soul and innards into pulpy shreds..."

"Time sure flies," Earl agrees, pressing a kiss to Laura's forehead as he passes her a plastic baby knife. Or maybe it's not so much a plastic baby knife as it is a plastic baby dagger, complete with plastic baby jewels upon its plastic baby hilt and a plastic baby blood groove carved into its plastic baby blade. Carlos makes a mental note of this-- seeing as pens are still illegal, and all-- before conversationally commenting:

"Actually, according to my studies on the subject, time may be broken here in Night Vale."

"Really?" Cecil blinks once, looking fascinated behind the camera he's raised. Laura's hair is coiling like puppet strings around her Papa's hands, keeping her balanced as he hefts her from her booster seat. Earl encourages her to smile for Daddy, then sets her bitty feet atop the table. "Wow, neat! Is it speeding up or slowing down?"

"Uh... Science suggests it's slowing down," Carlos says, taking out his cell phone for a few pictures of his own. Earl is helping the little girl toddle to her treat, holding her upright by the tendrils of her curls. Cecil breaths a happy sigh of relief as he clicks his shutter, capturing the moment.

"How perfect!" the Higher extols, slipping into a seat across from his friend and daughter. "I was so afraid that she was going to grow up too fast. I mean, it already feels like she is, and it will probably always feel that way, you know? But every little bit of extra time helps."

Carlos cocks his head, never having looked at the horrifying reality of a warped timeline in such a positive light before. And while Cecil's disposition may ultimately be a bit too sunny, there is something to be said for the silver lining it casts. The scientist nods, careful, and slow, and in some kind of agreement. "It _is_ nice to have extra time for moments like t-- _woah!_ "

Carlos yelps, his moment of rosy introspection ended by a noisy squelch and a spray of something gelatinous. By a fluid, warm and red. Sticky and... Sweet? Jelly? 

The scientist starts, watching in some bizarre combination of shock, horror, and intrigue as the baby attacks her cake once more-- prehensile tresses and Fisher Price weaponry flailing as she violently rips the baked character into gooey chunks. Moist bits of chocolate pastry splatter against Carlos' lab coat, joining stains of frosting and strawberry jam. Laura's clothes are unsalvageable; her face is coated in icing. Cecil and Earl are just as messy as their child, as well as equally enthusiastic. 

"Good job, Lolo! Oh, look at how skillfully you evicerated it, baby girl!"

"That's right, sweetheart, feast upon your murdered prey! You are a natural huntress!"

"And she went right for the truffle-heart, too! So smart!"

"Carlos! Look! She's trying to study its fudge liver! How precious! Oh, she must have learned that from you!"

As directed, Carlos looks over to where his goddaughter is smacking at melted chocolate with open palms. He'd rather not acknowledge how much random stuff Laura has seen him smacking in frustration-slash-the name of Science. But though Carlos would prefer to ignore his influence on Laura's technique, he would flatter himself in saying that he recognizes the determination in her vibrant blue eyes. 

The scientist grins, glad again that the Night Vale Toys R Us sold My First Postmortem Dissection dolls.

"Happy birthday, Laura," he then says as well, joining her parents in applauding the utter demolition of her cake.


	66. Ultrasound

"I mean, don't get me wrong. It's not that I'm not thrilled-- I really am! We've been half-talking about having another baby for ages. And now is as good a time as any, what with Lolo nearly ten," Cecil chatters, sprawled across the lab's sofa as if it were a psychiatrist's couch. Carlos, as the pseudo-psychiatrist in this scenario, hums tonal responses at appropriate octaves, though the majority of his attention remains focused upon his work. At the moment, that work consists of carefully rolling up his friend's sweater vest, exposing the growing swell of his belly and applying a thick layer of gel to it. Glutenous, cold gel. Cecil shivers as he continues.

"I think it's good that she'll have a sibling. It's important that children learn how to compromise and interact amongst one another. And she'll have a chance to practice utilizing psychological warfare and physical aggression, as well as learn how to successfully blame others for her own mistakes and problems. All useful skills to know for adulthood, to be sure," the Higher rambles, his long arms crossed loosely and draped over his eyes. Lavender-tipped fingers have curled inward like the legs of dead insects, twitching faintly as the applied gel is smoothed over his tummy. "But, like... It's almost hard to believe, you know? It is so _stupidly_ difficult for eldritch beings to conceive. Even during heats the chances are pretty slim, and certainly not for lack of trying. It was such a shock that we managed Laura during our first real attempt. So for this to happen so _randomly_..."

Cecil peeps at his friend from under the splay of his wrist, clearly looking for some sort of response or reassurance. Carlos considers as he gives the wheeled cart parked to his left a careful pull, tugging it a few inches closer.

"Well, I study science, not biology," he decrees after a minute, flicking on his ultrasound. With delicacy, the scientist readjusts the monitor and the CPU of the contraption, murmuring, "But your race's overall conception rate aside, it is not totally unheard of for an animal to become impregnated slightly before or a bit after an observed mating period. And we are not too far from the next vernal equinox..."

"Mm. I guess," Cecil sighs, though he doesn't sound overly convinced. Two months may "not be too far" in certain contexts, but he doesn't feel like this is one of them. "Well, it hardly matters now, of course. I just hope Laura takes the news well. She's mature for her age, but it's going to be quite the change."

"I'm sure she'll be fine. She's so much like Earl, and he took it well, right?" Carlos reasons, looking temporarily past the ultrasound. On the second shelf of the same cart rests a materials reader; he cranks that on too, its multicolored lights reflecting in his glasses. This latter machine begins to buzz as the ultrasound starts to whirl, the dissonant noises braiding and fading into a single static hum. The scientist takes one probe into each hand, wishing he had a third to poke away curious Tattoos. Unsurprisingly, a few of the inky tendrils have gotten themselves trapped in the tacky solution that he had slopped onto Cecil's stomach. They wriggle, harmlessly ineffectual; they thrash, sticky and stuck. Carlos would be concerned had those prehensile markings not been constantly getting in the way during Cecil's previous pregnancy, as well. Instead, knowing from those sessions a decade ago that the gel causes his friend's appendages neither pain nor discomfort, Carlos opts to leave the Tattoos flailing and focus on the task at hand. 

Cecil, meanwhile, has opted to switch out his expression of concern for one of dreamy delight. His spidery fingers skitter down his face, their tips blending into the color of his blush as he tries and fails to hide a widening smile.

"He did. He took it _wonderfully_ ," Cecil sighs, giggling at some private thought as he snuggles deeper into the plush of the couch. "If I hadn't already been pregnant, I probably would've been after... Um, telling him."

"And what an interesting paradox that would've been to study," Carlos chuckles, smoothing both transducers over glossy, tautening skin. "Right then. Seeing as this is where we'd find ourselves regardless, let's see what we can... Well, find."

Flashing Cecil a smile of his own, the scientist twists himself around-- his eyes locking on the computer screen as his hands hone in on those areas that the materials reader whines about visiting. Cecil, eager and curious but knowing better than to move, cranes his neck as much as he is able, trying to help his friend in his hunt. Which is a nice gesture, surely, but not at all necessary; barely a minute has passed before Carlos is whistling, almost in parody of the materials reader.

"There we go!" he then verbalizes, his grin gaining teeth in his excitement. Squinting a touch, the scientist leans forward to make better sense of the haze on the screen. "Too early to tell the gender yet, but they look as healthy as can be."

"Really?" Cecil squeaks, his amethyst eyes brightening to tanzanite as he props himself up on his elbows. It is more movement than he should allow himself, but he cannot resist; he waits with something like patience as Carlos seeks out the view that readjustments had made him lose. "No problems? No mutations? Oh, thank the elder gods... I was so worried since, you know, it's not the right season for babies, and I feel like I've been sicker and throwing up more than I did the last time..."

"Well, you've no need to worry anymore. Not about that, anyway. Not when there's so much else in life to worry about," Carlos reassures, jovially pressing a button that will print Cecil a copy of what he's seeing. "They look perfectly healthy. Twenty fingers, twenty toes, etcetera."

Cecil's shoulders slump in relief, a tiny sigh escaping his lips as he breathes, "Oh, that's so good to-- wait."

He stiffens again. Freezes, really. His brow furrows as he looks back towards the scientist, blindly accepting the glossy printout being handed to him. "How many fingers and toes...?"

"Twenty! Ten of each for both," Carlos explains, sounding-- to his credit-- not even remotely judgmental of the fact that Cecil had apparently never noticed how many fingers and toes a single baby has. He gestures to the ultrasound print, circling what appears to be two growing beans with a gloved finger. Cecil, obligingly, gapes where he is directed to. Open-mouthed. Wide-eyed. His irises deepen to a rich plum as Carlos leans closer and excitedly raves, "It's amazing the detail that eldritch fetuses have, even at such an early stage of development! With a human baby we'd barely be getting good definition of their head at this point, but these two? Wow! I bet we'll be able to determine their biological gender by next--"

"TWINS?!" 

The sudden wail echoes shrilly off of the walls, Cecil's voice cracking down the middle like the glass of the ultrasound's monitor. Carlos winces, but says nothing about it. The Higher is already panicking, and to see Cecil in such a state immediately sets the scientist panicking, too.

"Y-yes? I did say 'they,' didn't I...?" Carlos frowns, preparing to mentally review his initial announcement. He needn't bother; Cecil is already nodding, though his stare retains a touch of accusation.

"I thought you were being gender neutral!" 

"Oh." Carlos blinks, then helpfully adds, "Uh. I wasn't."

"You don't say?! Sweet Spire!" Throwing his arms up in exasperation, the radio host collapses-- flopping onto his back like the weight of his unborn offspring has suddenly become too much. "Dark gods below, he doesn't just knock me up outside of a heat-- he knocks me up with _twins_?! But-- Eldritchs don't-- we almost _never_ \-- twins?!"

Cecil gawks at the ceiling, his face an awkward amalgam of shock and horror and thrill and disbelief. He crinkles the print in his clutching fists, not quite sure of what else to do. He considers crying. It seems a good option. Crying expresses lots of things. But in the end, he decides not to-- not now, anyway. Carlos is already looking understandably startled, and Cecil doesn't want him to think that he's sad. 

Because he's not sad. The Higher is many things, but he is not _sad._ And the fact that he is not sad makes it easier to calm down. Taking a deep breath, Cecil smooths his printout flat again, the motion deliberate and tender.

"Twins," Cecil repeats once more-- to himself this time, lips quivering in a way that could possibly be the start of a frown, or possibly be the start of a smile. His eyes are a soft, pale lilac as he gazes down at the grayscale photo, finding again the tiny blots that Carlos had pointed out. The scientist watches his companion do this with a wary sort of concern, then lightly jokes,

"Maybe you should buy a lottery ticket?"

The suggestion makes Cecil snort. "Don't be silly. I have far too many children to care for to risk myself like that," he quips, though with a playfulness that makes it clear that he'd understood Carlos' jest, albeit in Night Vale terms. He sits up again, grabbing a handful of tissues to clean off his belly. As he does so, the Higher takes note of the broken ultrasound. He flinches, apologetic. "As always, we'll pay for damages..."

But Carlos waves away the offer, much as he is already pushing away the wheeled cart. "Not to worry. I'll just use grant money," he assures, helping Cecil back to his feet. "Though maybe you should consider telling your husband the news in a room that is technology-free."

"Telling me what news?" 

With a stealthiness that would've made a ninja jealous, the lab door has been opened. The jamb now frames a figure crowned in blazing red hair, the tresses' color nearly as vibrant as his smile. 

"Sorry to be so late," Earl says as he steps fully into the room, his freckles swirling and his apron stained. He beams, if apologetically. "My boss lost his head just as I was about to leave. Everyone was required to stick around and find it. I didn't miss the ultrasound, did I?"

Carlos offers his friend a vague smile in reply, mentally rehashing his budget as Cecil steps forward, holding out the print.


	67. Up

“Lolo, is that you…?"

The pitiful whine echoes, as pitiful whines often do, from the living room. From the sofa in the living room, more specifically: a piece of furniture that Laura can only see the crest of from where she stands. She's still got a blonde-black curl coiled around the door to the garage when the pitched wail reaches her ears, echoing through the kitchen and drowning out the retreating huff of the school bus. 

"Daddy needs heeeeeelp..."

With a soundless sigh, the ten-year-old tromps more fully into the house, leaving her homework in a heap atop the table in favor of a more tedious chore. Or, if not more tedious, certainly a bigger one. The eighth month of her father’s pregnancy has only just begun, and Cecil is already as large as a dark planet without a sun. Or maybe larger. As Laura dumps her knapsack next to her notebooks, she watches his arms and Tattoos flail pathetically over the back of the couch, weary and ineffectual. He reminds her, not for the first time, of an upturned beetle.

“Laura, pleaaaaaaase…” 

Her pigtails spiral upward, forming helices in irritation. She doesn't normally mind being mute, but it is a bit frustrating when the one you want to tell off cannot physically see you. Blowing out her cheeks, Laura smacks her math text against the table. It's not an eloquent reply, but it does the trick—she’s made it clear that she had heard him. She’s on it. Just wait there a moment.

Not like he has a choice. That’s rather the problem.

“Lauraaaaaa…” 

_Okay, okay!_ the little girl signs, crawling like a spider over the decorative half-wall that connects the kitchen and the living room. Her mind provides the soundtrack to an action movie she’d seen the other day as she leaps over a rubbery mess of slithering, exhausted Tattoos, rounding the overstuffed sofa with a particularly graceful tuck-and-roll. She rolls her eyes, too, when she is greeted by verbal fanfare. Her prone and pathetic father regards Laura like some kind of storybook hero, here to rescue him from the trap he’s fallen into. He reaches for her, bioluminescent and mewling. Laura responds by curling two thick tendrils of hair around those flopping wrists, bracing her tiny feet against the floor. 

_Dad, I keep telling you to be careful,_ she scolds as she directs her looping locks, weaving them around his chest and leg for additional leverage. He hisses, but is unresistant. And maybe she had been wrong about the whole beetle thing. Bound like this, he looks more like a spider's lunch. _You can’t lie down if Papa or I aren’t here._

"I didn't mean to! I was just so tired," Cecil protests, grunting in mild discomfort as his daughter's hair snaps taut. He jolts; she wrenches. Her heels skid a bit on the slick carpet, but this isn't her first rodeo. Laura compensates where she needs to and tugs with both hands, using her weight and the physics that Uncle Carlos has been teaching her to pulley her father to his feet. His Tattoos scrabble to help with the effort, pushing when Laura pulls and catching her when-- with a final heave-- Cecil finds his balance and Laura loses hers.

"Oh! Ah, there we go..."

The two are left panting-- one blue in the face, the other purple-- as they grab at aching backs and share a long stare. Laura's gaze is sharp with accusation. Cecil's is blithe with affected innocence. 

"Well then! It's nice to do things together, isn't it?" he cheers, his expression as animatedly bright as Laura's is exasperatedly dull. Parents. The girl shakes her head as she turns away, her undulating tresses signing for her as she goes.

_You're making my hair gray, Dad._

"And such a pretty shade it is!" Cecil calls to his daughter's retreating back, trying and failing to waddle after her with anything resembling speed. "Yay for bonding experiences! Especially the near literal kind!"

_You're giving me split ends, too. Lots of them._

"I'm giving you lots of playmates, as well!" the Higher chirps, obnoxiously chipper as he gives his belly a rub. The smaller eldritch mimics throwing confetti. 

_Hooray._

"Ooo~ Aren't you excited?!" Laura's father coos amidst a whirl of torn loose leaf, a swell of affection temporarily dumbing him to even the most obvious sarcasm. He leans against the half-wall, beaming as his eldest scoops her schoolwork off of the table and shuffles towards her bedroom. "You're going to be the best big sister, baby girl~"

_Probably, seeing as I'm already the best daughter,_ Laura drones, impassively plucking two cookies from the jar on the counter as she goes. _I've got homework, and I'm gonna have my earbuds in. So. Like. Don't sit down or anything. Okay?_

"Okay! I won't!" 

Her father playfully salutes as Laura brandishes a finger, vortexing hair full of sweets and pencils and textbooks. As she passes, Cecil picks one pastry from her branching tresses, chomping down on it himself. "I really won't this time."

Right, well. Laura hopes that she'll at least have a chance to finish her own snack before he breaks that promise.


	68. Under

"You okay down there, Birdie?"

Earl grunts something that sounds vaguely affirmative. Well, he grunts something that he _assumes_ sounds vaguely affirmative, anyway; it's difficult to hear himself over the blood and adrenaline rushing through his ears. His head throbs, hair rustling against the carpet as he turns his face towards his concerned husband. Cecil is leaning over the ledge of their mussed bed, his body haloed by the light of the lamp that he is currently eclipsing like a planet without a sun. It is difficult to make out the features of this sentient silhouette, but Earl can hear gentle anxiety in his questioning murmur.

"Yeah, I'm... I'm just a bit winded, I guess," the Lesser mumbles, shifting a fraction in an attempt to work a chink out of his neck. Cecil tuts sympathetically, his Tattoos slithering idly over the edge of the mattress. The sheets knotted around Earl's legs rumple all the more under the undulations of the appendages, keeping the redhead tangled and half-caught beneath the bed frame. A moment later, and he is _fully_ caught: trapped beneath the splay of his Higher's pajama clad thighs. 

"Poor baby," Cecil pouts, empathetic and slinking, as he joins his mate on the shadowed floor. His descent is aided by his tendrilled limbs, lowering him atop Earl's pelvis with the grace of a fallen angel. An incubus, perhaps. Or something equally as enchanting, at least. "But you were so _brave_ , Early. Like a fairytail knight! ...albeit a totally ineffectual one who was defeated by a shadow puppet and then probably driven from his kingdom by shame."

"And _hair_. Shame and hair. Specifically the magic hair that had _made_ that puppet. Give me a _bit_ of credit," Earl husks, voice raw from exhaustion and shouting and the very dexterous way that Cecil has begun to roll his hips. A particularly nimble motion pulls a keen from the scoutmaster; his flexing fingers catch in the flannel of his mate's loose-- but tightening-- slacks. "Cee..."

"Mmm?" Cecil hums in reply, moving to brace his hands against the wooden shafts of their bed frame. Earl tries not to make a double entandre out of that observation. He fails spectacularly, his filters offline due to interrupted dreams. The rushing in his ears has returned, all that blood and adrenaline, but its pace is set to a quicker beat than before. His heart rate is rising along with other things, a breath snaring on a cry in his throat. The Higher punctuates his own purr with a pointed thrust, bottom lip caught between sharp teeth and his smile poking dimples into lilac cheeks. "What is it, darling...?"

"Wh-what d'you..." Earl swallows, hard and dry. Or perhaps just hard. "What do you think you're doing...?" 

His mate's response is a sound as drawn and luxurious as fingers over fabric. "Well," Cecil says-- lowly, and with far more composure than he has any right to possess when humping his husband into the carpet of their bedroom at a quarter past midnight, "at the moment I'm thinking of killing Lolo for that little stunt. Sooo, I figured we might as well get a head start on... you know. A replacement."

Cecil shrugs, oddly nonchalant for someone grinding down on their lover. Earl blinks, realization in the constellations of his frolicking freckles as he feigns something like guileless shock. 

"Wow," he then breathes, pale lashes flurrying like they've been on missed cobwebs. His back bows into an arch, toes curling in the now-more-intimately-known darkness beneath the bed. "Am I really getting 'thank gods you're alive' sex j-just for checking for mmm... monsters...?"

"What? Pft. _No_ ," his mate snorts, poised like an affronted king atop his throne. Or atop his knight, as it were. Smirking, he corrects, " _Obviously_ , you get it for surviving... a very _hairy_ situation."

Earl chokes on a groan that has nothing to do with mounting pleasure.

"...if it wasn't technically your birthday, I would smack you."

"Mmm, you can smack me if you want to~," the Higher chuckles, lifting his bottom as if preparing to offer it. The deviously deep chortle morphs into something endearingly shrill as Earl instead takes the opportunity to tug Cecil's slacks down-- followed by his now-bare hips. 

"Don't think I won't," Earl warns, broad palms kneading love marks into ticklish thighs. His husband squirms, mewling for more. "If you make one more bad pun, you'll have deserved it."

"Oooh?" Cecil trills as his spidery fingers trace the bulge in the scoutmaster's slacks, molesting the contours of his husband with both delicacy and delight. The susurration of flannel on flesh is drowned out by a mischievous gasp; the Higher palms what he's discovered, squealing, "Look! A birthday package for me!"

There is a moment of absolute silence.

Then a grinning, giggling Cecil gets exactly what he deserves.


	69. Labrythian

**A/N:** I will both confess and apologize now-- I don't really know much about this movie, having only seen it the once years and years ago. Oops.

  
**XXX**   


"Cecil, there is no way I am leaving the house like this."

"What?! Why?!" Utterly baffled, Cecil twists from Laura's baby bouncer, whirling dramatically to regard his redheaded husband. Redheaded, and now red faced, as well: his flush somehow more vibrant than that of his blazing hair. The inferno of those tresses has been styled up with glitter and gel, the sheen of it glowing as Earl's blush gains bioluminescence. It's a downright fabulous effect, particularly when paired with his sharp eyeliner and black leather gloves. "But darling, you look perfect! Even David Bowie would be jealous!"

To say that Earl's responding expression comes off as a bit incredulous would be like calling the Void a wee dark.

"Cee, these pants are _three sizes too small!_ " the Lesser hisses in mortification, trying in vain to hide his lower half behind the jamb of the walk-in closet. The gray suede trousers that he had all but been sewn into cling to him more tightly than many people's skin, outlining his every curve and bulge. One particular bulge, especially.

Cecil's lilac eyes flash, a smile caught between sharp teeth as he glances his lover up and down, noting the same thing. One particular thing, especially. "Mmm. Yes, David Bowie would be _very_ jealous," he purrs then, sweeping the long brown locks of his wig over a shoulder. Sitting himself on the edge of their bed, the Higher crosses his jean-clad legs-- one foot continuing to gently jostle Laura's bouncer as he demurely hides his own growing bulge. "I'll get lost in your labyrinth any day, dear."

"As long as that labyrinth is somehow contained within this room," Earl tells him darkly, so wholly embarrassed at this point that the burgundy blotches on his cheeks are gradually turning amaranthine. Should any more blood join those pools, he'll be as purple as his Higher. "I am not going anywhere in this. _Especially_ not a company Halloween party! Sweet Spire."

"C'mon now, don't be like that! You're gonna wow everyone with your Goblin King outfit," Cecil coos, slinking slyly away from their slumbering baby. His rear slides over smooth silk sheets with a hiss of sound not unlike laughter. He scoots closer to the one hiding in the closet, opting not to make the obvious joke as he hefts up the hem of his baggy white shirt and sings, "All you need now are some balls to play with. Here, I'll let you use min--!"

A terrycloth bathrobe-- ripped from a hanger and wadded into a ball-- bursts against the side of the Higher's head, simultaneously draping and dazing him. 

"Masters, Cee-- keep your clothes on when our daughter is present!"

"What? You want to take her away, first?" Cecil offers with a smirk, eyebrow arching as he shuffles off his downy dressing gown. "How very Gareth of you."

"Oh, stop that," Earl huffs. His freckles jitter; his nose scrunches. "You can compliment my commitment to canon all you want-- this costume is not happening with these pants."

"All right, all right. Fine. You win." His mate sighs, shoulders slumping in earned submission. Leaning back against one hand, Cecil idly flaps the other-- gesturing towards Earl's lower half with an expression affected by remorse. "Take off those pants."

Or, perhaps, by a very affected remorse. 

The scoutmaster narrows his gaze, understandably suspicious as he regards his innocuous husband. "...I don't trust your motives."

"Oh...?"

The tone curls upward-- not unlike painted lips. And then Cecil is positively _leering_ , the expression exploding across his face with more suddenness than any chucked bathrobe could ever hope to.

"And you shouldn't!" he then cheerily acknowledges, toying once more with the buttons of his outfit. There is definite deliberation in the way that the first one pops free. In how the second is eased through its loosened hole... "But this is Halloween, not Christmas-- so I'm pretty sure that we naughty boys still get treats."

Earl frowns, still eying his wanton husband. Though admittedly, his stare is now full of less suspicion than it is of other things... The Lesser's tongue catches briefly between his teeth, pink and flickering like his lashes. "That's true... But those treats have to be earned through tricks."

"Indeed. Shall I teach the Goblin King a few tricks for playing with balls, then?" Cecil tempts, amusement in his heady purr as he sprawls himself atop the bed, the rustle of an auburn wig augmenting the hum of a drawn zipper. 

There is a pause at the end of the invitation: brief, but pregnant with the anticipation that comes in the wake of any summoning.

And then, weakly:

"Let me just spirit Lolo away to her bedroom, first."


	70. Monstrous

“ _She looks at me like I’m a monster!_ ” 

Cecil positively _howls_ , his pitched voice cracking clean down the middle. Sprawled atop the confines of a groaning, sagging bed, the Higher wrings his hands and Tattoos and worries bits of tissue into gauzy strips of confetti. Earl—understandably startled by this half-shrieked greeting—eases the door to a close behind him as milky tears begin to spill from the corners of his mate’s fourth and seventh eyes. The second, third, and fifth are nearly as watery. Trapped beneath the accumulated weight of nine months of pregnancy, Cecil’s face is now almost completely eclipsed by the swollen mount of his abdomen. Still, Earl can clearly see his lover's lips as they start to wobble, if only because the Higher's mouth now cuts all the way up to his ears.

And though the Scoutmaster knows—he _knows_ — that this is not at _all_ the right thing to say to his incredibly hormonal husband, he is caught so off-guard by all of this that he hears himself respond with a meaningful:

“Um… _well_ …”

Cecil freezes, all eight of his arachnid eyes glittering with horror and hurt. “Oh _Gods_!” he yowls then, open sobs wracking his engorged body. The spindles of his shadow writhe in distress, the more archaic of his markings deepening from incandescent indigo to a bioluminescent plum. “I’m hideous and frightening and _fat_ and _my daughter doesn’t love me anymoreeeeee!_ "

“No, Cee—! Oh, baby doll, calm down…!” Choking on a series of soft, soothing sounds, Earl trips frantically forward, leaving the entrance with a flail of freckled arms. Freckled, _bloodstained_ arms, matted in gore as much as the rest of him; Tourniquet had suffered a particularly violent rush hour, and Earl had only intended to change out of his work attire before starting on supper for his family. But now his mate is bawling with such anguish and intensity that the radio on the side table is beginning to splutter, steam hissing through its grill as its mechanisms crackle and fry. The Lesser pays lost technology no heed, even as the bedroom lights begin to flicker; he simply blinks his innermost eyelids and meets the bubbling gaze of what his lover really is. “Shhh, shhh. Cecil, you’re being silly. You are _not_ hideous or frightening. You know that. You are mighty, and beautiful, and just… you. A different version of you, one that Lolo hasn’t ever seen before. It’s natural for her to be a bit wary. It’s good, even! Children with a proper sense of caution survive longer, right?”

Earl arches a prompting brow, sidling to sit beside his sniveling lover. Said lover snuffles, mulish, as he squeezes the life and air and moisturizer out of yet another lotion-soft Kleenex. 

“…I notice you didn’t argue my being fat,” Cecil huffs a moment later, his grumbles breathy yet begrudgingly comforted as his Lesser chuckles, stamping a series of kisses to each of his leaking eyelids. 

“Well, seeing as you’ve got two eldritch babies and probably a metric ton of cookie dough up in here…” Earl trails off, tenderly petting the quivering bulge of the other’s stomach. “I mean, _I_ wouldn’t call you fat, but we both earned an If The Shoe Fits badge back in the day, so…”

The pleasant memory elicits a wet chuckle from the Higher. Or, at least, the grunt that Cecil makes in reply contains some smatterings of amusement. It also contains copious amounts of snot. In light of this, he winds up sounding endearingly akin to a good humored man happily drowning. “I remember that. I bought cute pumps to celebrate. You know, ironically,” Cecil reminisces, effervescent chortles gradually flattening into a drawn sigh. “…I'm sorry. I didn't mean to greet you with a tantrum. I just miss Laura, that’s all. I feel like she’s been avoiding me lately, and I don't know why."

"Well... Have you considered that it might have something to do with all the migraines you’ve been giving her...?" Earl lightly suggests, wincing in a sympathy felt either for his husband, or daughter, or both. Cecil gawks at him, uncomprehending. Insulted, too, by the implication that he might have been inadvertently abusing his child… But then he flinches, looking a bit ashamed as his Lesser reminds, “Her hair is very sensitive, you know that. And you’ve been asking her to use it a lot over these past few months. Also, she’s ten, babe. She’s at that age where she wants to be both a child and an adult, so we're gonna be wrong no matter what we do, and no matter how we treat her. Although,” he tacks on in afterthought, musingly lacing his long, pink fingers through Cecil’s spindled lilac ones, “it may help if you spent a bit more one on one time with her. Like the camping trips I’ve been taking her on.”

The Higher sulks, his puffed cheeks gaining shades of blotchy puce as he protests, “I’ve been _trying_ t—!”

“How long before you started talking about the babies?”

“…maybe two minutes. But they started to kick! I couldn’t help it. It was… you know. Neat.” 

The confession is sheepish. Earl’s response is empathetic, tongue clucking as he cradles his husband’s willowy hands.

“I know you’re excited about the twins. I know you just want Laura to be excited, too,” the redhead acknowledges, in the gentle, yet firm tones that Cecil has heard him use with his pouty scouts. The Higher might resent being lumped in with bunches of broody preteens if not for the fact that he is still moping like a toddler. As it is, he should probably be flattered that he’s being treated with so much respect. “But the thing is, you’re unintentionally making her think that her life isn’t as important by comparison. I think she’d be more inclined to be excited with you it was made clear that things aren’t going to change as much as she fears they will. And she probably fears they'll change a _lot_ , based on how these past few months have been. You talk to me on and on about Lolo, but when was the last time you talked to Lolo about Lolo? Spend some time with her that doesn’t involve chatter about the babies—even if they kick—, or requests to have her help you up, or whatever. It should be easier for everyone, now that you’re bedridden.”

Cecil mulls on this idea for a moment, weighing it physically upon his shoulders. In the past, doing so would've had him tipping slightly left and right, as if a pseudo-scale. Now, he can do little more than wiggle faintly, purple in the face. “But… what if she still treats me like I’m a monster?”

“Then we’ll remind her that racism is against the law and have her thrown in jail,” Earl intones flatly. But he smirks a heartbeat later, dipping forward to press his lips to Cecil’s temple. “She won’t. She misses you, too, you know."

"She does?"

The Higher perks, all eight of his eyes round and jewel-bright. “Really?” he asks, visibly excited as Earl snorts and shakes his head.

“Really. Just yesterday she was telling me off for not being able to paint her nails as nicely as you.”

“Oh, Lolo…” Cecil wibbles, pearly tears glistening. His lashes quaver as dramatically as his chin as he then keens, “My poor baby girl! You gave her an atrocious manicure, didn’t you? Masters, Earl! We can’t have our daughter going off to school and Girl Scouts with an atrocious manicure. Do you know how often she uses her hands? Like, _all_ the time. More than most people. Ugh, that just won’t do! You hafta send her in here so I can fix it. I have to fix it right now. Gods! Why didn’t you tell me yesterday?!”

“Uh, well, you were sleeping, so—”

“Bird, that doesn’t matter! Masters of us all! Now, quick! It’s an emergency!” Cecil declares, bouncing upon his bottom as much as his belly will allow. Anticipation manifests in a pair of prompting hands, as well— the Higher simultaneously shoving his mate away and gesturing for his absent child. “Get her get her get her get her!”

“Geez, okay, okay! Off I go,” the Lesser concedes, allowing himself to be pushed by hands from the mattress and by Tattoos to the door. “Remember, just—”

“Tell her to bring the metallic gray polish because it will be super cute with the new hair ribbons and sneakers I ordered for her last week! And the decals! _Don’t forget the cat decals!_ ” Cecil wails, with a vehemence and passion that almost completely overshadows his earlier, snottier cries. But hey, Earl thinks as he is physically forced from the bedroom, still smelling of brine and other people’s blood—if his mate is going to be crying either way, he’d much rather it be over something like nail polish and bonding.


	71. Diamond

“Carlos? Hey, Carlos, are you here…?”

It’s a silly question, even when asked rhetorically. Of course Carlos is here. Carlos is always here, at the lab, performing the titular duties that Science demands of him. Whatever those tasks are today, they have him popping out from behind a cartoonishly large model of the solar system, the planets all crafted from puzzle pieces that have not come from the same box. Or timeline. Or dimension. Earl would ask about the project if he thought he’d understand the answer that his friend would give him, but as it is, his lunch break is short and his brain is too full of other information to have space to store knowledge that complex. He decides simply to compliment the other’s skills at reassembling broken things—a prized trait for those who live in Night Vale—and get down to business of his own.

“Hello, there. What can I do you for, Earl?” the Scientist inquires pleasantly, his lab coat giving an impressive billow as he jumps across the room. The elementary children had invoked a game of Lava Monster the other day; though all level surfaces have solidified back from their molten state, some people are hesitant to let the game die. It doesn’t particularly surprise Earl to find Carlos included amongst those numbers, considering how much fun he has babysitting Laura. Just look at the abject and horrified concentration upon his face, even now! Adorable. “Has one of your Scouts contracted Octopus Pox again? I think I still have some of the plaster from last time, if you—”

“Oh, I’m not here as a Scoutmaster,” Earl corrects, though he can understand the confusion, seeing as he is toting a large, patch-imbued body bag. “As you might say, I’m here for personal reasons. I was hoping you might help me with something Science-related.”

As usual, the S-word has Carlos perking. “Always,” he chirps, smiling broadly and with all of his perfect teeth. It’s actually pretty impressive how he can show off his molars, too. And even his wisdom teeth! Plucking a stray piece of Saturn out of his curly hair, Carlos begins to shift and bend and scrutinize the sack that had been swung over his friend’s broad shoulder, his feet securely planted on a stray couch cushion. The fact that Earl is standing firmly and unscathed on the magma-free floor does nothing to convince the Scientist of its safety. Well, to each their own. “Is there something about this rucksack that has you concerned or curious?”

“It’s what’s in the rucksack, actually,” the redhead tells him, which only serves to further pique the Scientist’s interest. Wandering to a pristine side table—one a few feet away from a veritable skyscraper of jigsaw pieces—the redhead deposits his lumpy sack with a skin-crawling hiss of vinyl on vinyl. “Cecil was telling me about the day trip you and he and Lolo took to the Museum of Forbidden Technology’s geological exhibit, and how you were explaining that diamonds are made out of compressed bones and stuff. Is that true?”

“I’m not quite sure which part you’re asking me to verify, but all that you have said is factually sound,” Carlos confirms, hop-scotching from throw pillow to throw pillow until he can join Earl at the island counter. Palms pressed flat to the cool, black surface, the Scientist leans close and politely inquires, “Is there a reason that your bag smells like liquid copper and Axe?” 

“Wow. You can smell kitchen supplies?” The Lesser regards his companion with a raised brow, visibly impressed. Then he gives the rucksack’s zipper a tug, and Carlos finds the answers to many of his questions inside of it. Not all of his questions. Never _all_ of his questions. But a good few of them, at least. Those answers have him cringing, gagging audibly as Earl cheerfully announces, “Anyway, Cee’s and my anniversary is coming up, and money is a bit tight at the moment, but I figured if there really was a way to make diamonds out of bones, you could help me do that, so long as I provided the necessary supplies.”

“And who is… er, the necessary supply?” the Scientist lightly queries, a gloved hand over his mouth as he peers more deeply into the bloodstained backpack. Not surprisingly, all untainted meat has been delicately cleaved from the skeleton, leaving only the sallow ivory of its larger bones and a few knotted spirals of parasitic hair. The glistening sheen of clinging carnage dates the cadaver’s death to Very Recently Today, As In Like Maybe An Hour Or So Ago, as do the damp stains that dye the apron that the sous chef wears.

Said sous chef waves an equally gore-smeared hand, his eyes flashing the same crimsons and ebonies as exposed viscera. “Oh, no one important. Just that useless new line cook of mine, Marc Carrol. I overheard him bragging about spitting in your food the last time you visited Tourniquet. Also, his son has been bullying Laura. And we couldn’t have that, could we.”

The Scientist cannot help noting the lack of an actual question in that questioning statement. He hums in agreement, albeit hesitantly.

“Still, I… well. I suppose a moralistic lecture about not fighting cruelty with cruelty isn't going to get me far, is it?” Carlos hypothesizes, even as he pokes a finger warily into the open satchel. The Scoutmaster shrugs. 

“Cecil used his words on the radio and at a PTA meeting. They didn’t work. So I used my hatchet instead,” he intones, freckles pulsing ominously atop his cream-pale skin. Those otherworldly markings count out a steady beat—one, two three—and then Earl is beaming again, all small town amiability and friendliness as he trills, “Anyway, waste not, you know? I have a nice black pudding cooking at work, but we’ve already got a healthy supply of bones for rues and soup stock. So. I figured you could help me find true beauty in Marc’s insides. Or make true beauty _out_ of his insides, as it were. Maybe a pair of earrings.”

“I see,” Carlos replies, for lack of any other idea of how to reply. He prods a bit more at a femur, then at a gristly rib cage. “Uh, well. If you can get us permission to use the cremator in the City Council building, I know of a theoretical way to reduce the resultant ash to a carbon-based material that will—under the right conditions of applied heat and pressure—create at least one, small diamond after a few weeks…”

The Scientist glances up in time to catch iridescent inner eyelids snap to a shut. Those nictitating membranes glitter with diamonds of their own beneath the room's florescent lights, parting once more to reveal humanoid irises of soft brown. 

“Neat!” Earl then grins, dropping the strap of his bag in a nonverbal show of approval for this plan. “I’ll just leave this here, if you don't mind. Gotta head back, and I can’t bring him with me. You know what they say in the food business: once meat has left the kitchen, it’s either going in your mouth or the garbage disposal. Or both! Who can say? But anyway,” the Lesser tacks on, stepping backwards with a playful mock salute. “I’ll drop by City Hall to get the proper permits tonight. Thanks for your help, Carlos! You’re a such a peach... I'd make a cobbler out of you if it were the right season!”

“Oh, don’t mention it! And… um… please don’t,” the Scientist says, the latter part rather quietly. Still, his smile is both flustered and genuine as he waves goodbye to his friend.

The door closes again. Earl is gone. As he leaves, Carlos finds himself glancing back towards the assorted body parts within the bag, his eyes darting comparatively between those fragments and the togged pieces on the opposite table. For a moment, he considers… But then he shakes his head, casting the macabre thought aside. He has plenty of his own toys to play with, Carlos figures. Besides, he’s not sure how puzzle glue would react within a kiln, anyway.


	72. Marshmallows

“What on Earth are you doing?”

Earl’s eyes are as wide as the twilight sky as he gapes at his boyfriend, the firefly sparks of their shared bonfire adding starry glimmers to his doe-brown irises. And there’s an aptness to that, Cecil muses, seeing as Earl looks very deer-in-the-headlights, at the moment. His mouth too full to immediately reply, Cecil instead shoots the other a saucy wink. The Scout across the way turns such a vibrant shade of ruby in response that his companion might worry he had somehow caught fire if it wasn’t for a total lack of agonized screaming.

Instead, Earl is making a shrill choking noise. It’s cute. Cecil is glad it’s not drowned out by the salacious ‘pop’ of his lips upon dessert.

“Well, I’m preparing my marshmallows, aren’t I?” the younger Scout retorts when he is able, fingering the treat that he had extracted from his mouth. The dark depths of his mouth. No, not even his mouth—closer to his esophagus, really. The speared marshmallows upon his rod glisten like polished opals beneath a thick sheen of saliva; Cecil wipes a few sticky dribbles of pale, sugar-spun spittle from his chin before continuing, “You’re always making fun of me for just setting the things on fire, so I thought I’d try this new method. Josie told me that if you dip marshmallows in water before toasting them, you can pretty much put ‘em in the heart of the flames and they’ll brown instead of turn to charcoal. But seeing as water is a precious resource in the desert, I figured I’d suck on them a bit for the same effect.”

The redhead’s stunned expression has yet to change. Hell, he has yet to blink. Earl merely continues to gawk, his freckles glowing starkly against his pale skin in the smoky blaze. Cecil, meanwhile, punctuates his claims with a cheery beam, flattening his tongue to the camber of the treat and licking up the supple shaft of it. He purrs softly, enjoying the taste of saccharine slickness. Then he wraps his lips around his teeth, carefully slipping the engorged tip of the first, followed by the swollen girth of the second marshmallow into his malleable maw. With a sonorous hum of delight, Cecil suckles and thrusts, urging the delicacy deeper and deeper into his throat. His face is fast becoming a mess, shining with pallid secretions and smiles.

Earl’s marshmallows have melted off of his stick. He hasn’t noticed. Nor does he notice when said stick begins to smolder, its twiggy knobs becoming embers as tendrilled flames travel up its shank.

Cecil flicks his eyes meaningfully to the wreckage of his boyfriend’s treat. Then back to Earl. Then back to the skewer. It takes a few circuitous repetitions before the redhead teen catches up, catches on, and pulls away before he catches on fire, thus sparing himself burns and a few flame-related puns. Still, there is a scarlet color raging in his cheeks-- a heat that stems from a different source, if the way he is squeezing his knees and shifting his body is indicative of anything.

The second Scout is fairly confident that it is.

“You lost your marshmallows,” Cecil observes with another bawdy slurp, balancing his extracted dessert against one of the rocks that encircle their bonfire. He crouches to do this; he crawls when it’s done—on his knees in the dust and cold sand as he circles the inferno, slinking like a panther towards his companion. “Maybe I should prepare you some…?”

“S-some… Some more marshmallows, you mean…?” Earl presumes with a squeak, the very personification of gangly awkwardness as he tips over. His breathing intensifies when his boyfriend nears. He is panting, then flailing, then sprawled beside the blaze with his eyes upon the Milky Way and Cecil between his legs. And then those legs are upon Cecil’s shoulders, Earl’s inner thighs framing a grin as sharp and bright as the rising crescent moon.

“Actually,” Cecil announces, with a sweetness that has nothing to do with sugar, “I think I’m in the mood for something else.”


	73. Contingency

“Now, this is very important, Laura. If you fail me in this, the consequences will be dire indeed. So, tell me: what will you do after we’ve finished here?”

Laura mulls upon the question, blinking vibrantly blue eyes at her somber father. At the ruined kitchen. At the smeared mess of flour and egg whites and sandy piles of split sugar, and the half-melted streaks of butter that have slickened her little knees. Squating atop the island counter and holding a gifted spoon, she digs into the soup tureen of cookie dough with one hand and signs with the other:

_Not tell Papa what we did?_

“Exactly. Good girl,” Cecil praises, huffing a small sigh of relief. He is sitting beside his daughter with a wooden ladle in his fist, heeled feet crossed and daintily dangling. Suckling a wad of gritty sweetness from the side of his palm, the Higher plucks up a tiny box of raisins—the kind often packed in Laura’s lunches—and dumps the wad of five withered nuggets into the eighteen pounds of chilled desert between them.

Laura wrinkles her button nose as she watches the dried fruit enter the mix. _I’m not eating those,_ she willfully declares, a coil of hair tossing the crumpled box into the trash along with so many shells and plastic bags. She makes the basket with ease. She’s had a lot of practice at school, after all. Her father offers her polite applause before vehemently adding: 

“Oh, neither am I. I mean, gross.” Cecil shudders, disgusted, before gently reassuring, “We’ll just pick around them.”

Appeased by this mutual decision, Laura nods and watches Cecil do just that. With care, he ladles himself another heaping helpful of raisin-less dough, rubbing at his flat belly in a way that she has noticed him doing more and more often, as of late. It’s odd, she supposes, but her father has always been eccentric. Shrugging, Laura mimics the action, as well as the way that Cecil pops a chocolate chip into his mouth. As he suckles the candy into syrup, he adds, “It’s just smart to have a contingency plan, you know?”

Gradient locks fashion themselves into question marks. The little girl pauses, a growing ring of melted chocolate granting her an edible goatee as she tells him, _I don’t know. What does ‘contingency’ mean?_

“Hmmm. How to define ‘contingency’….” Cecil considers, glancing towards a ceiling that has somehow gained glutinous stalactites. He blames the electric mixer and its ‘cyclone’ setting. Though really, he should probably just blame himself. He knew it was better to start at ‘summer gale.’ “Well, it means that Daddy is really, really bad at keeping secrets from your Papa, and so Daddy is trying to preemptively save his own butt. By putting in the raisins, I can say that I made myself a healthy snack and it won’t be a lie. Technically.”

 _Oh._ Laura reflects on this proffered wisdom—her nine year old shoulders weighing out the grayscale moralities presented to her—before innocently concluding, _I think this is what Uncle Steve means when he says you’re a bad influence on me and Janice._

That her father’s initial response is to choke, features flushing a furious fuchsia as he fumes, is not remotely surprising. His daughter merely samples another spoonful of their shared sweet, unperturbed by gnashing teeth and growls. “Yes, well. You know what Uncle Steve can do.”

 _Bite a rock?_ Laura automatically suggests.

“Or a raisin,” Cecil darkly decrees, tenderly thumbing a doughy blot from his child’s rosy cheek. 

_I think that’d be worse._

“I agree.” 

For a full minute, the pair contemplates the consequences of so vile a curse, chewing in a companionable silence. Then the tide of discussion turns, changing to talk of school and the radio station. To Khoshekh and his newest batch of kittens, and the way that the swings on the school playground have gained sentience. They chat about math and boys and Girl Scouts and have just begun to debate the best shades of nail polish for spring when Laura’s argument for silver is punctuated by the slam of a car door. As one, father and child freeze—eyes locked and widening as booted footfalls echo within the garage.

“Sweet Spire, he’s early. Of course he is, Cecil, it’s in his damn name. Crap. Save yourself, Lolo,” the Higher hisses, snatching Laura’s spoon away and gingerly shoving her off of the counter. She ‘meeps’ mutely as Tattoos and tresses and ribboned socks help her skate over slick linoleum; she is pushed into the living room at the same moment that Earl’s clomping feet stutter to a shocked still.

“Now, before you get angry, Birdie,” her father says in greeting, his palms raised in placation and his low voice pacifying, “let me assure you—I put raisins in it.”

Eavesdropping from around the corner, peering up at her Papa’s freckled, condemning face, little Laura thinks that maybe Daddy’s contingency plan hadn’t had enough contingency in it.

Whatever that is.


	74. Theme

**A/N:** This is silly and pointless, but I just really like Sparks Nevada. (I mean, it’s half an hour of listening to Marcus Vansted. What’s not to like?) No doubt Laura would’ve inherited Cecil’s love of westerns, too.

**XXX**

_When there’s varmints need a-catchin'  
And young ‘uns need a-savin’  
On my rocket steed I race across the stars  
For I’ve sworn by the burrs of my astro-spurs  
To right the outlaw wrongs on Mars~_

“Yes, he rights the outlaw wrongs on Mars,” Earl and Laura croon back to the radio, the redhead while mentally counting out stitches. His daughter, overly enthused by the prospect of a new “Sparks Nevada,” spells out the theme’s lyrics like some sort of scrolling marquee, her prehensile locks twisting into the cursive that she’s been practicing at school. This maneuver leaves her hands free to guide her own rocket-steed: the partly-decayed hobby horse she’s named Cathy. Cathy—eyes glassy, tongue lolling, and a few maggots frothing in the corner of her mouth— has been further festooned by a pair of handmade booster packs, lovingly crafted out of aluminum and old soda cans. The cans’ tinny clatter fades into the hum of the theme’s chorus as Laura gallops around the couch, wooden shaft in one fist and a blue alien plush in the other.

_Oh, the hypercattle’s hummin'  
And the Marjun’s savage drummin’  
Are as beautiful as comet bugs in jars  
Oh, I’m from Earth  
But I right the outlaw wrongs on Mars~_

“Yes, he rights the outlaw wrongs on Mars,” the Scoutmaster intones with Laura, the call’s response so engrained in him after years of faithful listening that Earl no longer notices himself singing. Instead, his focus has fallen fully upon his knitting. He lifts the kerchief-sized scrap of blanket that he’s managed to finish, looking beneath it for the stitch he’s dropped. It’s not on the line, but it’s got to be here somewhere. It’s not like it could have gone far.

_On the planes of the red planet I uphold the law  
And I do it with a pair of robot fists_

_Pow!_ Laura signs, clenching Cathy between her knees as she socks the air in front of her, one eye squinted and a kung-fu master’s grimace upon her face. That grimace becomes slightly more genuine when Cathy’s heavy, rotting head proves too much for the girl to keep aloft without her hands; as the horse sags downward, the stick she’d been mounted to jumps upward, smacking Laura lightly against the bottom. The child jumps, startled. She drops her Croach doll, spinning. Then she scowls at her deceased assailant, legs parting to release the dowel that Cathy had been skewered upon. Leaving the toy abandoned upon the floor—with a gentle kick of punishment, because one can never beat a dead horse too many times—the ten-year-old clambers onto the couch, scrambling atop Earl’s lap when he, too, frowns and sets aside his project. He’ll find that stitch later. Probably. In any case, he adds the task to his mental To Do list, along with getting Laura a new hobby horse. Cathy is starting to smell a bit rancid. For now, though, the Scoutmaster contends to playfully grab at his daughter’s arms, bouncing her in time to the jaunty tune.

_Evil extermination I have faced  
For my robot rouges they hardly ever miss_

“Hardly ever miss!” they cry, teasingly taking aim at one another, as if in demonstration of Sparks Nevada’s claim. In overly exaggerated slow motion, Earl touches his knuckles to Lolo’s cheek. Laura, in turn, retaliates by lassoing her Papa with a loose noose of hair, giggling as the assault has his freckles scattering like automaton delinquents.

_And I reckon I’ll be ridin’ in the name of truth and justice  
For as long as I can count the shooting stars  
For I’ve sworn by the burrs of my astro-spurs  
To right the outlaw wrongs on Mars~_

“Yes, he rights the outlaw wrongs on Mars!” Earl and Laura harmonize—one with his voice, the other with her hands—before they both turn their fingers into eloquent little guns, clicking their tongues as they gesticulate and flatly add, “And I’m from Earth.”

As the final note of the melody begins to fade, the audience that Sparks had been performing to starts to cheer, smothering the threat of silence with joy and sound. The swell of staged exuberance is accentuated by static as it spills out of the Harlan-Palmer’s radio. Father and daughter applaud, too—extolling praise on one another with a series of embellished waves and bows and golf-claps for their own performance—before settling down to listen to this month’s thrilling adventures upon the make-believe planet designated ‘Mars.’


	75. Break

“Mmm, Chef Harlan, I am so _hungry_ ~ Do you have anything I could stick in my mouth?”

“Cecil…”

“Maybe something I could suck on for a bit...?”

“Cecil—”

“Something with a creamy filling would be _lovely_...” 

“ _Cecil!_ ” Earl hisses, the name half-rebuke and half-breathless arousal as the redhead stumbles back into the stocked pantry, elbows catching against shelved sacks of potatoes and shoulders jostling precarious packets of powered parasites. There are ravenous teeth nibbling at his throat and famished fingers clawing at the ties of his apron, and had cannibalism amongst Night Vale citizens not been declared strictly forbidden during last month’s fifty-eighth press conference, Earl might actually be a bit worried about losing his skin. As it is, though, the sous chef’s only real concern is over a loss of control. And, perhaps, a loss of pants. 

He groans, almost helplessly, as his voracious boyfriend suckles and licks and bites at a shucked collar bone, tenderizing the meat there with all manner of tenderness. Even still—and despite the legs he feels himself wrapping around the Higher’s thin hips— Earl gasps a reproving, “Hngh—Cee… Cecil, o-oh, dammit… _Stop_ , you need to— we can’t… Not _again_ …”

“Mmm, yes, we can. And yes, _again_. 'Seconds' are a thing, as you well know." 

The reassurance is nuzzled into a freckled, flushing nape, as velvet-soft as the tongue that traces the reply into Earl’s flesh. Shadows cover more of either man than clothing does, at this point; the sous chef can only hope that the clattering he’d previously heard had been dried beans sent scattering across the floor, rather than the buttons of his front. 

Cecil, meanwhile, huffs and husks, his palms pressed against the shelving of the darkest corner. His pelvis is pressed against Earl’s thigh. Nails grind, and hips grind, and teeth grind to keep the radio host's sonorous Voice at bay, even as the taut fabric of their slacks chafe and scream. “ _Hngh_ —personal matters are… are permissible during break time. And this is your break time.” 

“Y-Yes, ‘break,’” Earl agrees, refusing to stand down even as he stands down. Or is hammered down, as it were: rolling thrusts urging him closer and closer to the ground. To other things. Cecil follows behind—follows his behind— climbing after his lover via a ladder of sills. “‘Break’ as in ‘rest.’ It is not permission from Tourniquet t-to ‘break’ the rules…”

“Hmm? This is breaking the rules…?”

“Sex in the storage room...? Preeeetty sure,” the sous chef wheezes into the gloom, his voice dry but his eyes damp. His lashes have begun to bead, full of tears that have little to do with the box of onions they've stumbled upon. One of Earl’s sauce-stained knees winds up on the left side of that case; the other soon frames its right, its girth successfully spreading his legs. He is crooked and prone and gorgeous. Together, the Lesser’s lap and the side of that crate create a pseudo throne worthy of a king. Or a drama queen, as the case may be. And Cecil, accordingly, lowers himself atop that seat without a second thought, his hands still braced upon the wooden shelves that Earl rests against.

Though, apparently, this is not quite restful enough. The Higher disagrees with his lover's opinion, but relationships are built on compromise. In the spirit of this, he utilizes his leverage—in both the literal and figurative senses—and makes an offer. 

“Well,” Cecil purrs, punctuating each syllable of the sinful drawl with a pointed undulation, “Since I know how much you hate breaking rules, how about we just _bend_ them…? Let's see how far I'm able to bend them before you snap...”

“O- _oh_ , Elder Gods, Cecil… C-Cecil, please—” 

Linoleum squeaks as pink fingertips scrabble atop its tiles, groping for purchase as other hands grope for other things. Find other things. Hide those other things once more, the Higher moaning with the obscene satisfaction of the full as he single-handedly stuffs himself. “ _Holy hells, Cecil_ —!”

“Ah! _Masters_ , that’s good…! Nnn, babe, you are th-the best—! H- _hah_ —… Hngh— that hits the spot, _oh_. Yes, th-that one, there...! Are you r-ready to snap yet, Birdi—? — _oh!_ Sweet fucking _Spire_!”

The radio host yowls, his keens of delight nearly shattering the glass of the sealed preserves above them when Earl finally succumbs to taunt and temptation: he snaps so hard, so fast, that things begin to break. The crate, the shelves, Cecil’s pleasured voice… 

But then, what is break for, if not exactly that?


	76. Pamphlet

_What exactly are they doing, though?_

A vial slips between Carlos' gloved fingers, his delicate expression falling along with the delicate container. The attention that he should have been paying his own hands has fallen instead upon his goddaughter’s, just as her attention has fallen away from the eggplants that she had been helping him study. She has one such vegetable—semi-sentient and shaped like a cube— caught in the vice of her bony knees, her hair full of scalpels and forks as it twines idly above her head. She readjusts her safety goggles, her gaze unblinking behind the large plastic lenses.

_What are they doing?_ Laura repeats, pausing only to push the glasses up the bridge of her tiny nose. Again. The plump purple flesh of the eggplant shines glossily as she squeezes it, squatted like some sort of Amazon predator atop a workbench stool. Carlos certainly feels like prey—or praying—, despite the fact that the query itself is quite innocent. Maybe the raw horror he is experiencing stems from a different source of panic. Or the Feelings Delivery Service.

He doubts it, though.

“Er… I am afraid I have no idea what you mean,” he lies—poorly—wincing when he realizes he’s stepped on the broken glass of his dropped vial. Oh dear. What a waste. The last of his ranch dressing had been held in that, too. Now what will he pair his experiments with? Besides, perhaps, a flavorful vinaigrette.

The ten-year-old frowns, her gaze as sharp as the implements in her looping locks. _Dad and Papa,_ she expounds, signing with obvious suspicion as Carlos allows himself to be distracted by the lab’s mini fridge. The Milky Way leggings that Laura had been dressed in undulate lazily around her shins, clouds of stars dusted away by the rhythmic meteor shower of her drumming fists. _I know that they take a week vacation twice a year. Papa says he and Dad need time to themselves just like they each need time alone with me. That’s okay. I get it. But that’s something they do in the spring and the fall and it’s not the spring or the fall right now. It’s the summer. Plus they asked you to watch me for three weeks instead of one. So what are they doing?_

“I…” The Scientist clears his throat. Then he clears it again. Then he does it a third time, until his gullet is as empty as his mini fridge. Of course, the cough is little more than a ploy to buy him time to think of a fib. But Carlos has got nothing. So much _nothing,_ both in and out of the refrigerator. Eventually, he is forced to settle for a retort that is admittedly less than eloquent:

“Uhhhh."

Genetics are fascinating. Through their power, Laura has inherited a perfect replica of her father's ego-withering stare. Brow smartly arched, the little girl demands, _Doesn't a scientist always know?_

"I, um... I _know,_ I just-- I couldn’t say.”

_But you study them, right?_ Laura persists tenaciously, her periwinkle fingertips blending beautifully with the blue of the Andromeda system captured on her tights. The curling appendages of her prehensile locks assist in carefully lifting her from her seat, the eggplant as much abandoned as the experiments pertaining to it. Spiderlike and slow, Laura inches closer to her guardian, face and fingers accusatory as she forms her questions. _Anything they do is part of the study, right? So you’ve seen them do whatever it is they’re doing, right?_

Despite exerting conscious efforts to prevent this, the Scientist’s face turns as red as the tomatoes they’d next been planning to dissect. “Not intentionally.”

_But you have seen it? For Science?_

“I—It was an accident, not Science,” Carlos blurts in a flustered rush, not sure if he is more mortified by this line of interrogation or by his incredibly awkward response to it. He had known such queries to be inevitable. Laura is no fool, and this month-long stay she’d been lovingly coerced into would’ve rung warning bells in even the dullest of minds. That the Scientist had not better prepared an appropriate response by now is inexcusable. Perhaps the only thing more inexcusable are the words even-now coming out of his mouth. Something tells him he’ll regret this. It is a quiet Something, and invisible— one that whispers through the Scientist’s bones before diving out of the window, off to join the other Somethings stampeding through the Sand Wastes. And yet, despite its advice and his own embarrassment, he cannot seem to shut up. “Their car was in my driveway and I thought they were having engine issues or something so I— uh. Anyway." 

Carlos chokes—as if on one of their cornucopia veggies—, shaking his head in an attempt to etch-a-sketch the mental image away. Laura, her hair lassoed around the lab's nearest light fixture, dangles beside Carlos’ shoulder, blinking slowly as she considers each syllable. She is the daughter of a journalist, after all. The Scientist inwardly curses his inability to utilize words as a normal person should as he weakly concludes, “I theorize that this knowledge is something that you would want to possess even less than I do, Lolo. This is not something I would usually say, but it would be best if you let this particular curiosity go.” 

Laura thinks on this for a moment—visibly ticking though accumulated data in her head as the octopus tendrils of her tresses lower her back to the ground. Then, decisive, she matter-of-factly concludes: 

_They’re having sex, aren’t they._

Had Carlos been holding any other vials, they would have broken, as well. As it is, he nearly breaks his jaw as it drops to the floor. “Laura...!”

_Judging by your reaction, I am going to surmise that my hypothesis is a sound one._

For a moment, the Scientist hates himself and his damnable talent for teaching. 

“How did you even—?!"

_I’m not a little kid, Uncle Carlos,_ the little kid scoffs, rolling her unnervingly cerulean eyes as she meanders back towards the discarded eggplant. In her absence, it had been half-attempting to escape, but had failed due in great part to being a vegetable. _I know babies aren’t delivered by tarantula nannies._

“I… What?”

_And my cousin Janice just went into her first Heat so my Girl Scout troupe leader gave us these pamphlets about our bodies and stuff,_ Laura adds, with a nonchalance that makes her seem rather bored. Maybe she is bored. She clambers atop her stool once more, tossing the eggplant back and forth between her bangs like a pinball. It is a mindless game. Laura pays more attention to flicking at the spandex stars on her thighs, oblivious to the mulling intrigue that Carlos considers his goddaughter's announcement with.

“I… Can I see the pamphlet?" he eventually manages to ask, captivated. Flustered. Realizing in retrospect how awkward that had sounded, Carlos quickly adds, "For Science. I’ve never found any pre-existing literature on eldritch biology. Not anything that’s fit for the public, anyway.”

The child, unimpressed, shrugs in that jaded way that all pre-teens do. _I guess,_ she then concedes, with a series of meticulous, careful gestures. _If you answer one more question._

"Uh. Okay...?" That Something is back, and now it is telling Carlos to be wary. He really needs to set some Something traps, like the rest of the town. Nothing is more frustrating that a niggling Something...

_Did you_ really _see Dad and Papa having sex in your driveway?_

...except, perhaps, when that Something is right.

Carlos sighs, frustratingly pink in the face as he tells his thoroughly disgusted charge, “Keep the pamphlet.”


	77. Groceries

“Dude!”

“Uh…” Already dazed and thoroughly distracted, Cecil levels the young man beside him a slanted glance, his brow arching in mild apprehension and his skin pimpling with sudden chills. The Higher suspects that some of this goose flesh stems from suspicion. The majority, though, can likely be attributed to the brisk air wafting from the grocery store’s freezers. He has the door to one such display open now, and the capped stranger with the baggy slacks and long hair who had greeted him is pressed flat to the dry glass of the opposite side. Said stranger is grinning, his teeth as sharp as a shark’s.

“Duuuude,” he says again, in that friendly way people do in a small town. That friendly, get-to-know-you-way that has Cecil wrapping one arm around his protruding belly, and the other hiding his daughter from view. Laura, for her part, remains more interested in her cell phone than imminent danger. She allows herself to be ushered so long as it doesn’t interrupt her game of bejeweled.

“Um. Hello to you, too, unknown sentient being with whom I share a city,” the radio host carefully greets, his Tattoos pointedly keeping the freezer door open. It helps him think. And while it would take the wide-eyed man no more than a half-foot side-step to walk around the smoggy glass, a frustratingly ineffectual barrier is still better than no barrier at all. At least until Cecil can be certain of this other creature’s intentions. He clearly has intentions. Who doesn’t have intentions? He demands to know those intentions. “In what way may I assist or maim you on this fine Wednesday afternoon?”

“Dude. _Dude_.”

“I… am fairly certain ‘dude’ is not a verb. Or an answer. You're aware of this, too, aren't you?”

“Dude!”

“I am starting to suspect that you are less a man of few words and more a man of one word.”

“Dude. Duuuuude."

“Could you at least pair this with charades, or…?”

"Dude!"

“Pretty thing, you’re blocking the fish sticks.”

“Earl!” With a grateful gasp, Cecil turns his head enough to spot his returning husband, a beacon of redheaded salvation as he rounds the shelves of the Ralph’s. The Lesser’s freckled arms are laden down with fresh vegetables and fruit, as well as a healthy cut of deveined nutmeg steak. After dumping his finds into the plastic basket, Earl gives the whole cart a ginger pull—urging it, and the Higher who balances against it, as well as the little girl who has lassoed her hair around said Higher’s belt loop, to step away from the frozen foods.

“Dude,” the scrawny gentleman declares gratefully, grabbing at the freezer door before it can slam shut. He then proceeds to shovel great quantities of rime-encrusted packets into his own trolley, conversationally adding, “Dude,” while he works.

“Yes, well—I think he rather had other things on his mind the last time you two were in proximity,” Earl defends, albeit with a touch of apology in his voice. Though his family’s reaction had not been surprising, it hadn't been incredibly polite, either. Best to address that now. Flip-flopping his attentions—hands gesturing from Cecil to the stranger, and his eyes leaping from the stranger to Cecil—the Lesser amicably reintroduces, “Cee, this is my poissnnier. He probably has a name, but all he ever says is ‘dude,’ so I have no idea what it is. We just call him the poissnnier. And, sometimes, Chuck. He seems to like Chuck. Or if he doesn’t, has yet to understandably express as much."

“Dude,” the poissnnier-occasionally-referred-to-as-Chuck says, making a cocking noise with his cheek and tongue before pretending to shoot the Higher with a finger gun. The gesture has Cecil immediately coloring, half-flustered and half-offended. That is quite an intimate salutation! He does not think of himself and this fellow as so acquainted as to have merited such a familiar greeting… But then, thinking back to events that had occurred the last time he’d visited Tourniquet’s kitchen, perhaps Chuck had witnessed enough to imagine themselves as bosom buddies.

He had, in all likelihood, seen flashes of Cecil’s bosom. So…

“Nice to see you again,” the radio host returns affably, though his arms and Tattoos remain as poised and defensive as ever. “Is work treating you well?”

“Duuuuude. Dude, dude, dude.”

“Hey. I’m right here, you know,” Earl snorts, expression wry but tone jesting. He places a calming hand atop Cecil’s shoulder, massaging at the tension there until dangerous Tattoos begin to grow lax. “And there’s no need to go fishing for compliments. Or in the gravy, while we’re at it. If we’re gonna talk about things that need to stop, then that is chiefly among them.”

“Dude?”

The retort—and whatever coded message it had held—has the sous chef turning vividly scarlet. Cecil can feel embarrassment add small electric twitches to the fingers perched against him. He is not sure which he wishes more strongly: to know what the poissnnier had said, or to _never_ know what the poissnnier had said.

“Er. Yes. Well. We haven’t done that in—um. Never mind. Right. You keep on fishing. That… seems fair.”

Cecil blinks. Glances again towards his mate. Based solely on Earl’s expression, he is fairly sure he knows what his wish is, now. But then, seeing as he's figured out the content of the exchange on his own, the point is moot; instead, his mind turns to another of his wishes—a near constant one, what with his sixth month and its Insatiability Period nearly upon him.

The Higher’s eyes glaze over a bit at the thought. Upon him…

“Early…” Cecil whines as he watches his mate turn suggestively crimson, crooning breathily and cheeks pinking. Earl—now very much accustomed to the cadence of this particular plea—responds by opening another freezer and shoving his husband into it. "Eep!"

The treatment has the radio host squealing, then pouting, then sighing, his brain switching heads as he feels a faint but grounding tug at his hip. Oh, yes— Lolo. And public. And people. And this poissnnier dude. Right. Damn hormones. Frustrated, the radio host buries his face in a bag of frozen peas, as had been his intention before being interrupted by a new friend. He breathes deeply, evenly, encouraging the chill to seep into his skin and calm his libido. Three more days until IP officially starts. They’ll need food. He can keep it together long enough to buy food. That was the reason for this trip in the first place.

Yes, he can keep it together. And he can certainly keep all of his clothes on.

“Dude,” Chuck the Poissnnier comments sympathetically, even as he yanks a sack of fillets out from beneath Cecil’s head. There is a faint ‘thud’ as the Higher’s forehead connects with the shelf beneath it. There is also the sound of an exasperated breath hushing through a child’s nose, and Earl murmuring in soft placation. “Dude.”

“Yes, that’s why he’s been wearing mostly dresses, lately. _Anyway_ ,” the Lesser artlessly segues, with a swiftness that is both rude and unfortunately necessary, “I think one in my troupe is coming to the end of her patience, and the other is—um, nevermind. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Dude,” Chuck says in way of farewell, offering a brief salute as Earl takes his family by the hands and drags them in the opposite direction. Laura has yet to peel her eyes away from her game. Cecil looks very much like he _wants_ to peel something away, regardless of who might see. Becoming increasingly heat dazed with each step away from the frozen food aisle, the Higher is muttering something under his breath about the stench of fish and how he’d never thought he’d have to worry about _that_ ruining the mood. How about you, Early?

Earl responds by abandoning their cart in favor of home.


	78. First Meeting

**A/N:** Sooo. Episode 56. Still deciding how I feel about it, overall. But in the meantime, here’s something it inspired— based on a very quick line of Earl’s. 

Laura 3.0 and go~

**XXX**

“I don’t know. I just—maybe the tie is a bad choice. Is the tie a bad choice? It’s a bad choice, isn’t it? Oh my gosh, what if it catches on fire while I’m frying something? Or becomes sentient and tries to strangle someone? Elder gods below, this was the _worst_ choice in the history of choices! What was I thinking?! Gah—!”

With a soft cry of frustration, Earl begins to wrestle with the knot of the fuchsia tie around his neck, plucking and pulling at it with such vigor that he winds up tugging himself from one end of the kitchen to the other, as if on a leash. Through the frame of the living room’s jamb, a twelve-year-old watches him struggle—perched atop the sofa and far more entertained by her father’s antics than those of the television. She winces when he nearly slams himself into the wall; he winces when she slams a fist against the coffee table, seeking his attention.

_Papa, calm down,_ she signs when he looks her way, her features an odd amalgam of amusement, exasperation, and concern. _You look fine. Everything is going to be fine._

“You have no proof of that,” Earl whines in return, his tone playful but his countenance somber. His skin has gone so very pale that extra freckles appear to have popped up out of nowhere, like distant stars in an inverted night. In turn, his daughter stares at him with the same incredulity that she and those like her have been taught to regard the sky, as well as the mysterious celestial orbs that hang within it. 

_And you have no proof that it won’t,_ she counters, pushing herself to her feet and meandering to Earl's side. Her auburn pigtails sway rhythmically against the back of her Girl Scout uniform, fabric and hair susurrating against one another as the heels of her mary janes click atop the kitchen’s linoleum. Though she is half her father’s size, she strikes a presence twice as commanding; Laura gestures for Earl to lean closer, and he bends nearer without question. Once he does, the girl busies her hands with the very stubborn knot of his accessory, the motions deft and tenacious. Unable to sign, she instead mouths, _And if something bad_ does _happen, you can just use Okinawan martial arts to save Mr. Palmer and he will be so impressed that he’ll probably lose his pants._

“Laura!” Earl admonishes, his features going from white to red so quickly that the blood rush has him swaying. Or maybe that’s just his daughter’s jerking fingers. Either way. “That was entirely inappropriate! _Obviously_ , if something bad happened, I would save _you_ first,” the sous chef scolds, the corners of his scowl twitching as he tries to repress a smile. “And everyone’s pants will stay on.”

Not-quite properly chastised, Laura rolls her eyes, giving the loosened tie a yank. Freed from the sous chef’s neck, the scrap of silk falls to the floor with an unexpected solidity. A passing moment finds it writhing where it landed, then slithering dumbly back to its cage in Earl’s bedroom closet. Laura considers it as it goes, thinking that perhaps her father’s concerns about garnered sentience hadn’t been entirely unmerited. Oh well—she’s always wanted a pet snake. Anyway.

_Right, right. Pants for everyone. On everyone. At least until the third date, right?_ she teases, elbowing her flushed father in the side. The jabs—both literal and verbal—have him squirming. Reproachful again, Earl retaliates by grabbing one of his daughter’s pigtails and giving it a reproving yank.

“I told you, Lolo, this isn’t a date! Cecil’s just coming over for dinner.”

_And to get a sample of your DNA._

“Yeah, for the radio station’s DNA drive.”

_I bet he collects it with his mouth._

“Laura!”

_All I ask is that you wait until I’ve finished dessert and am safely hidden in my room before you start making out like nineteen year olds. I don’t really want to see that. Oh—and disinfect the couch afterwards, too. I sit there, you know, and I don't want cooties. Lysol my cushion, at least._

“Y—! Young lady, I brought you into this world via that tented Void in the vacant lot in the back of the Ralph’s and I can take you from it just as easily,” Earl warns in a splutter, nearly purple in the face from humiliation. Laura responds with a soundless snort, her smirk positively impish as she signs:

_Are you gonna ask Mr. Palmer to come huddle w—_

The last of her taunt is lost in a flail of fingers and hands and arms, the little girl’s expression bright with giggles as she dodges a series of wadded napkins and coasters and a chucked spoon. Happenstance has the clatter of the cutlery harmonizing with the ring of the doorbell. At its first silvery chime, Earl freezes. Laura, conversely, having gained a bit of momentum from fleeing her father’s playful assault, uses that drive to propel her towards the foyer.

_I’ll get it!_ she signs to no one in particular, wrenching the door open with enough force to drown out the shrill squeak of mortification coming from the kitchen. The preteen smirks, enjoying the mental image of her father frantically and futilely scrambling for perfection; that smirk widens all the more when she find an equally flustered man standing on their stoop, bicolored hair rumpled as if he’d tried on thirteen other sweater vest combos before settling on this one. He has a bouquet of rosemary poorly concealed behind his back, and the tendrilled tattoos beneath his rolled sleeves are glowing with an indigo bioluminescence indicative of enthusiastic embarrassment.

“Welcome to… um, your house,” this gentleman caller says, grinning through his awkwardness. The rosemary rustles behind him, its pungent perfume preceding him into the vestibule. Laura arches a brow, unimpressed but charmed, as she hangs from the knob of the door. “You must be Laura. It’s very nice to finally meet you! Please, call me Cecil.”

He extends a hand, spindly and pallid. The girl swings for a moment more, cheerfully regarding the offering. She regards his cat-print bowtie, as well, and his psychedelic fanny pack. The latter is heavy with something suspiciously Lysol-shaped. The observation has Laura nodding knowingly, which she figures is a more subtle congratulatory gesture than patting herself on the back and mouthing ‘called it.’ There are more important things for her to be doing with her hands and mouth right now, anyway, such as using them to pleasantly greet her father’s guest. And so, with a pretty beam and great gusto, she tells Mr. Palmer:

_If you hurt my Papa, or I find out that you’re just using him while that scientist is away, I’m going to kill you. Slowly. And imaginatively. And— Brown Stone Spire willing— with some kind of ironic twist._

She beams, blindingly cheerful, as a painted nail circles the Murder and Mayhem badge she's had sewn onto her sash. The patch had been lovingly stitched beside her Creativity badge and her Stamina badge, so as to more effectively make a point. And if the way Cecil is flurrying his lashes is anything to judge by, that point has effectively been made. For a heartbeat, the radio host is too stunned to move; his hand hangs in empty air, unacknowledged.

But then he smiles, retracting it enough to reply.

_If I do any of those things, you have my permission to do just that._


	79. 11:11

**A/N:** Oops, I really like this dynamic too. Have more 56 inspired silliness.

**XXX**

The microwave clock is green and gleaming. Ethereal, almost. Haunting. In the all-consuming darkness of the kitchen, its glow looks radioactive, but isn’t quite. Likely, it looks accurate, but isn’t quite that, either. Time is broken in the quaint town of Night Vale, after all. Who could confidently make any claims about it? Or claims about anything in life, really? But to the best of Earl’s knowledge—and the microwave’s, for that matter—, it is now 11:16 PM. Five minutes ago, it had been 11:11 PM, and he and Cecil had been standing half-in, half-out of the foyer and its open front door. Animated conversation had dwindled into a series of long pauses and lingering farewells until his friend had checked his watch and playfully ordered, “Make a wish.”

Earl is not sure what his wish had been, in that moment. Still, he is fairly certain it is coming true.

“O- _Oh_ —” the redhead gasps, enthusiastic and keening. Prayerful, almost. The inhaled hiss that whistles through his teeth is somehow shriller than the squeak of mismatched shoes upon linoleum, of shadow-shrouded hands as they clutch and tug and pull at what they know and sense but cannot see. Beyond the window, the world is more Void than sky and more sky than earth. The stars never were, and the moon—caught in the lie of its own existence—has fled in shame. There is nothing but blackness. Blackness and fingers and bumping knees, noses nudging noses as pelvis fall against pelvis. Against chairs and table. They stumble into one another as much as they stumble into the room’s undetected furnishings, moving with the clumsiness of the desperate or recently blinded. Mostly the latter, he thinks. He hopes.

And if love really is blind, Earl thinks, then he never wants to see again.

“Shhh…” the one before him is whispering, each little sound accompanied by a jingle of buckles, belts, buttons. Cecil presses his lips to Earl’s mouth as any other might lay a silencing finger: gently, but pointedly. Commandingly. A curious tongue slides against the sous chef’s, mimicking the quest of the spindled fingers against his chest; the radio host muffles a delighted squeal as he is hefted atop a barren counter, legs bound around a thin waist and fists caught in ginger hair.

“M-Masters, Cecil—!”

“ _Nnn, Earl_ ,” Cecil croons in kind, the brace of hooked feet granting him the leverage to roll his hips. And roll he does—hips and eyes both, the latter nearly falling to the back of his head in pleasure. His sonorous voice is breathy as he cries out, velveteen and hardly audible. Still, the plead laced into the other’s name echoes deafeningly within their ruddy ears. The men’s trousers hush against one another in a series of ignored reminders, their mewls and moans growing progressively louder as they tumble back in a tangle atop the island and—

_Click_

“Ah—!”

“Holy—!”

“—!”

Merciless light, blinding in ways less romantic than before, returns to the kitchen with a resonant snap. Visibly startled—as well as just plain visible, caught as they are beneath the fixture’s elucidation—, Cecil and Earl flush the same vivid scarlet as the chef’s tousled hair, their clothing rumpled and limbs snarled and eyes wide. Painfully wide. Horrifyingly wide. At least as wide as the eyes of Earl’s daughter, who had been sluggishly rubbing crusts of sleep from their corners until she had been greeted by a veritable nightmare vision.

Frozen and compromised atop the counter, Cecil and Earl helplessly gape.

Motionless beside the plastic switch, Laura considers what she is seeing.

_…I guess I’ll get water from the bathroom, then,_ she languidly decides, dismissing her father and his courter with a vague wave. _Night, Papa. Night, Mr. Palmer._

The light clicks out once more.


	80. Favor

**A/N:** I wanted this one to be applicable for any of the three-plus verses contained in this collection, but it works best with the post-56 series.

**XXX**

“Hey, Early? Could you do me a favor?”

“Little busy right now, babe,” Earl rumbles in return, the words distorted by the contortions of his face. A towel tight around damp hips, his hair a wild wet flame, the scoutmaster is having a stare down with his iPhone. Shaving has been made a bit difficult due to his boyfriend’s psychological aversion to mirrors, but he is making due as best he can; Earl leans awkwardly over the edge of the sink, twisting this way and that and back and forth as he tries to assess how much shaving cream and how much stubble he has yet to pare away. The task is made no easier by the haze of his recent shower, nor the radio host who has popped his head into the bathroom.

“It’s an easy favor,” Cecil reassures, wheedling, dispersing musky clouds with a wave of his hand and a sheave of scribbles. “I know you’ve gotta head out in 20, but I can make this quick. You don’t even need to stop what you’re doing. All you have to do is listen.”

The redhead makes a noise. It could either be a prompting noise, or an annoyed one. Cecil decides to interpret it as the former, seating himself primly on the puddle-dappled ledge of the tub. It doesn’t matter if he gets a bit wet. He doesn’t have to leave for work until 3, after all; he’s still dressed in his pajama pants and a ratty Boy Scouts of America t-shirt. It had matched the one that Earl had been wearing before Cecil had lost him to the shower. Not that the radio host minds the change. He curls his bare toes in the fuzzy pink bath mat, admiring the taut muscles and adorable freckles of his boyfriend’s nearly naked body as he hopefully adds, “I just really need a discerning ear. I’ve been working on this editorial for so long that nothing sounds right anymore. If you could be my sounding board, I’d really appreciate it. I need it done for tonight’s show.”

The scoutmaster grunts another response, this one a little more blatantly affirmative. His lips even move a fraction, indicating that he’d like to say more, but the blades traversing over his Adam’s apple would make doing so a bit dangerous. As he finishes his chin, though, and taps his razor clean of excess foam and bristles, Earl throws out an encouraging “Shoot” before beginning the first stroke of his left cheek.

Though likely unseen—due to the rather small size of Earl’s iPhone’s screen, and the way that he is crouched so attentively before it— Cecil takes a moment to gift his boyfriend a grateful smile. Then, with a rustle of his notes to serve as prelude, the radio host clears his throat and intones:

“And now, a station editorial. Listeners, a lot has been made of the concept of honesty. It is a virtue, to be sure, and like most virtues has traditionally been lorded over our heads as some shining ideal that no one ever particularly intends to personify. Those who try are often placed on pedestals—usually in the western half of Mission Grove Park—, not so much to raise them up as a pinnacle worthy of admiration, but to make them easier targets to shoot down during the NRA’s biannual BBQ Bash-n-Bang.

To get a bit personal for a moment, listeners, I have never much cared for honesty. The truth, I find, is subjective, and often based on the collaborated results of a lifetime’s worth of accumulated bias. Even if truths are not all created equal, they are all in some way created, and as such are not much different from lies, sans their being less fun to tell and more likely to indict you. In my experience, I have found that lies are better suited to protect a man, and a town, and a world, from the unpleasant, cruel, and unwanted. But the problematic thing about such protection is that it is indiscriminate. It keeps out the bad, yes—but it also keeps out the good. It keeps out the people. And it is so very good at doing just that, that one often finds himself alone. And loneliness, I fear, is a poison that will kill even the strongest amongst us, our peers unable to see us dying beyond the walls we have constructed.

But after so many years of lying and hurting, I had an epiphany of a sort. Though a truth may be no more prejudiced than a lie, it is crafted from those prejudices that have shaped us. Those biases that we hold most dear. That we cling to as evidence of self. Every unpleasant moment, every cruel exchange, every unwanted injury shapes us into _us._ And because of this, it is our truths, I realized, that make us who we are. And it is only in the sharing of those small fragments of self, in giving tiny pieces of our lives and souls away, that we earn the right to share the company of others. That we gain loved ones, allowing them past the walls before it is too late.

Listeners, I have never been a very open man. Like many of you, I decided long ago that loneliness was a wiser price to pay. I didn’t think that I could aptly protect myself otherwise. It wasn’t worth the risk of finding out if I could. But then, I was reacquainted with a man who… Well, a man who could not only protect himself, but who has lived his life protecting others, as well. A man who has been, to me, a paradigm of valor since childhood, and who even now is the best role model that I or the Scouts or any line cook could ever hope to have. He is a neighbor, a friend, a mentor, and a man so worthy of knowing that—for the first time in years—I found myself not only willing, but _wanting_ to confess to certain truths, both to myself and to others. I yearned to share myself, even though the mere idea of doing so was more frightening than any horror I have yet to face in our quaint town. Even though I knew that I was opening myself up to possible hurt. Even though I realized the dangers of lowering my defenses. But now, sweet listeners—oh, sweet _listener_ — I can state with complete conviction that choosing the truth was the best decision I ever made. I am proud to say that I have become an honest man, and now, I would like the opportunity to make as much of the man I love. To that end…”

Cecil glances away from the papers that he holds, instead looking towards the man beside the sink. At the man who had steadily turned to face his boyfriend, his razor dangling from slackened fingers and his brown eyes bulging above a mess of shaving cream and shock. His whiskers, half of which are still stubbornly attached to his face, have been forgotten. Blinking seems to have been forgotten, as well. And breathing. And everything else besides the radio host, who takes the opportunity to scoot himself from the tub to the tiles and pose upon one knee.

“Earl Harlan,” he concludes then, switching out his script for a ring box that he fishes from his pocket, “would you marry me?” 

For the third time, Cecil is answered by a guttural sound: a desperate, gasping groan that is pressed directly into his open mouth. Scrambling, Earl had fallen to the slippery floor, his towel loose around his waist and his lips tight to his lover’s. His freckled cheeks are moist from more than just the residue of his shower as he presses closer and closer, clings tighter and tighter, sobbing a litany of amorous noises as he kisses Cecil stupid. 

And all of those noises are unquestionably affirmative.


	81. Bribery

**A/N:** Thinking about it, I guess the main verses for this collection are Eldritch family, Eternity Vale Homages (often with plus-one adopted or surrogate-mother-birthed-Laura), and now this sorta Post-56 storyline thing. I should probably come up with a system for denoting which is which… or figure out how to reorganize these chapters or something. Meh. Anyway. This one is a sort of prequel to "Favor."

**XXX**

_So, what are you trying to bribe me into, Mr. Palmer?_ Laura pleasantly inquires, her eloquent fingers peeking over the crest of a cartoonishly oversized sundae. Years of fairytales and personalized anecdotes have taught her to see the strings attached to gifts; she knows better than to allow herself to get tangled up and manipulated. She twirls a silver spoon sharply enough to sever any unseen threads, but even still waits to consume the presented present. Instead, she watches her host turn as pink as deliquescent glops of strawberry syrup.

“It’s not a bribe,” Cecil promises the teenager, his elbows spread and his palms placed one atop the other atop the soda-sticky counter of the White Sand Ice Cream Parlor. He looks nervous more than offended. He looks hopeful more than nervous. Laura considers the expression, swinging her crossed ankles beneath the 50s style vinyl booth. “I do, uh… Have a favor to ask, though.”

Of course he does.

Laura nods to the slow, steady beat that the other’s voice sets. The hand she waves, however, is quick and prompting; this conversation needs to finish before all of the ice cream melts, or its purchase was for naught. And things like ice cream, tar, and skin tend to liquefy with some rapidity in the desert. Cecil clears his throat, trying to accommodate impatience while still clearly in the middle of psyching himself up for something.

“Well,” he finally says, with a resoluteness that has obviously been assumed, “your father and I have been dating for… um, quite a while, now. Maybe one year? Maybe ten? It’s difficult to say.”

_Time_ is _a bit busted,_ Laura agrees, her unnervingly blue gaze never once leaving Cecil. They had first met when she was twelve, and though both are quite certain that days and weeks and months have passed since then, neither has been particularly affected by their going. Mr. Palmer has gained, perhaps, a single gray hair; Laura is taller, and thinner, and possibly sixteen. Or she could be five hundred. Who knows? Who cares? No one, if the answer does nothing to keep a sundae’s integrity. And it does not. _But its broken nature has not impeded my awareness of your romantic entanglements. Is there a reason you’re double checking my familiarity with the situation?_

Cecil’s flush gains a cherry topper on each cheek. He shifts within the softness of his seat, like he is trying to shake free from the shackles of a binding confession. Or like he is attempting to loosen an announcement that has clogged up his heart and constricted his throat. Or like he has a really uncomfortable chair, but Laura rather doubts that last option. Comfy cushions are a selling point of this parlor. “Okay. Okay, I— that is, Laura… Like, your dad is neat. Super neat. Super-duper neat. And I love him. A lot.”

_Wow. I can see why you’re a radio host. You sure have a way with the words and the talking,_ Laura signs, her expression flat but her eyes bright with laughter. A wheezy huff of air escapes her as Cecil playfully kicks at her shins, his blush deepening to amaranthine. 

“Shut up~” he whines as he does so, which accomplishes little more than furthering Laura’s amusement. 

_Really?_ That’s _the best comeback you can think up when talking to a mute?_

“Dammit, Lolo, I’m trying to be, like, serious and stuff here!” Cecil grouses, pouting out his lower lip. The lip wobbles, its weight dragging him down; he slouches in mimicry of a grouchy child, sinking low within the confines of their booth. The teenager snorts, unimpressed. 

_Well, maybe you should try again. You didn’t manage the first time,_ she retorts, dropping her chin into one hand while she gesticulates with the other. _Look, if you can’t even ask me for my blessing, how’re you gonna manage to ask Papa to marry you?_

“Wh—?!”

If Cecil was red before, it’s nothing compared to now.

“How—?” he squeaks, voice shrill enough to splinter the glass of the goblet between them. Milky goo begins to ooze through spiderwebbed cracks, soaking into the napkins that Laura had wisely nabbed before sitting down. Always prepared, that girl. A Scout always is, after all. She is her father’s daughter, through and through. 

_You’re kind of easy to read, Cecil,_ Laura tells her friend between napkins, mopping up what she can before anything drips onto their laps. If she mourns the loss of the ice cream, she doesn’t let it show. Rather, she seems more tickled than ever. Cecil, in turn, seems more flustered; he groans softly, momentarily hiding his face beneath the drape of his arms.

“I had a speech written…” he weakly admits, sounding mortified by the confession. “For asking you. And for asking him. But it’s never quite as easy to speak face to face as it is to speak into a microphone. I keep forgetting that holding a script looks suspicious. But then, when I leave the script behind, I can’t remember the right words. Ugh, I need my mike.”

_I was sort of wondering why you asked me to meet you here during the Financial segment of your show,_ the young woman comments, balling up the last of the napkins and pushing the whole sticky mess closer to the wall. Her pigtails whisper against the vinyl as she readjusts, leaning closer to give Cecil a bolstering pat before signing, _Well, if permission from me was what this was all about, then you got it. I mean, faulty or not, it’s really about time. And hey! Now you can stop pretending that you don’t spend the night. It’s gotta be a pain to jump out of Papa’s window at 8 AM, shimmy down the tree, change clothes in the garage, and then appear again on our doorstep claiming to have just arrived for a ‘breakfast date.’_

Cecil splutters, slapping a hand over his heart like one of the belles in the Westerns they so enjoy. Visibly affronted, he squawks and declares, “I never—!”

_Cecil, I don’t have a voice. But I can hear just fine._

“…I always.” He deflates, sheepish. Laura rolls her eyes, as if trying to watch The Point as if flies completely over her companion’s head. Even still, her expression is gentle with fondness as she assures:

_And now you won’t have to ever again._

There is a pause, thoughtful. Then, frowning, Laura amending, _You will have to work on your presentation, though. I think Papa deserves more than a bribery sundae. Even if he actually got to eat his._

“Hmm. Agreed. Do you have a better suggestion for winning him over?” Cecil asks, a small smile tugging on the corners of his own mouth when Laura flashes him a teasing smirk.

_Maybe a homemade tiramisu?_


	82. Tests

**A/N:** This is a sort of sequel to “Nap Time.” Remember that one? Lord knows I didn’t until very recently.

**XXX**

“Cecil?! Cecil, are you all right?! I just heard the— Cecil? Pretty thing, what are you d—? …are those pregnancy tests?”

“If I said ‘no,’ would you believe me?”

“Seeing as I am literally looking at and reading off of the boxes on the sink at this very moment… No.”

“Then I don’t see why you’re bothering to ask.”

“Cee. Those are for human women. I sincerely doubt they’d work for you.”

“They don’t. I tried peeing on three of them… One displayed ‘?ads!2303adswhyyYYYY???!!!*?’ instead of the advertised ‘+’ or ‘-,’ one refused to show anything at all—on principle, it claimed—, and one ignited like a sparkler. It was kind of gross. And, um. On fire.”

“Hence the alarm, I’m guessing. But baby, why do you have pregnancy tests at all? Do you— I mean, you didn’t need one for Laura, but… Do you think that you’re…?”

“…no. No, I don’t. And that’s just it.”

“I’m sorry…?”

“That’s just it. It’s that I think I’m _not._ I wanted—that is, I— well. I _wanted_ to be. I _really_ wanted to be. I know that the conception rate for our kind is ridiculously low, and that Laura was a virtual miracle, but… I don’t know. We got her on our first real try. I thought we might get as lucky on our second.”

“Cecil...”

“Don’t get me wrong! I’m not, like, unhappy or… Or ungrateful or bitter or angry or anything! I’m not. Really. I was just… I was hoping that… and, you know, I had promised you... Anyway. This morning I had this stupid idea that maybe I just hadn’t sensed the Shift this time, and figured it wouldn’t hurt to double check… But I was wrong. It did hurt. I think I burned my finger.”

“Oh, baby… Pretty thing, come here. Come on, come sit with me. There we are. Now look. I know you offered me one hundred young, and I know that you sincerely meant it. I need _you_ to know that I am sincerely grateful. But here’s the thing, Cee: I believe in quality over quantity. You know? We have Laura, and we have each other, and for now, the elder gods seem to think that’s enough. And I agree with them. And I mean, I don’t know about you, but I’m not planning on going anywhere. So there will be other equinoxes, right? That means other chances. But in the meantime, don’t stress yourself out over this. I don’t need more offspring, and Laura doesn’t need a brother or sister. All we need is for you to be happy. Can you manage that much for us?”

“I guess I can try… If you kiss my boo-boo better.”

“What, your pee-fire singed finger? Gross, no.”

“I washed my hands!”

“Yeah, but… Well, ew. Can I put a band-aid on it, and _then_ kiss it?”

“You can kiss my ass, that’s what you can do. Jerk.”

“Ehhh, maybe later. For now, how about I kiss you on the mouth, instead? Can we compromise on that?”

“Hmmm. Will you use tongue?”

“Would you like me to use tongue?”

“A little bit of tongue, yeah.”

“All right then, that sounds fair. Deal?”

“Deal.”


	83. Home Ec.

**A/N:** So, I keep running across fuzzy bra-and-panty sets. I don’t know why they exist, but they do, and they always make me think of genderbent Cecil.

**XXX**

“All right. So, first we’re supposed to mix together one third cup of—”

“Wait. Wait a minute. Sorry.”

Startled by the interruption, Ella does exactly as she’s told: doe eyes wide within the frame of her freckles as she regards her new classmate in her new Home Ec. class in her new school. Lowering the hand that she’d frantically held up, the pretty blonde beside her begins to pat down her bellbottoms and checkered apron, looking increasingly annoyed. Cecelia—that’s the blonde’s name, apparently— gnaws distractingly on her painted lip, nail polish glittering beneath the florescent lights of the classroom’s kitchen as she mumbles, “Oh— damnation and poxes. Where did it go…?”

“Uh… Can I help you find something…?” Ella asks, attempting politeness but no doubt sounding more bemused than anything. Her ginger braids beat gently against her back as she sets down her bowl and wooden spoon, turning to more fully regard her assigned partner. Cecelia is looking quite distraught now, her brow pinched and her artfully lined eyes narrowed. “What’re you looking for?”

Cecelia sighs, lamenting, as she flicks her long, pale curls over her shoulder. “It’s my phone number. I think I’ve lost it,” she confesses then, with such gravitas that it takes Ella a moment to realize that… wait. That doesn’t make any— “Could you give me yours?”

“I—?” The redhead gawks, her cheeks gaining burgundy splotches to match her plaid shirt. The heat of that blush apparently goes far in melting her brain, for in the next moment Ella hears herself blurting: “I don’t have a cell phone. I know that’s weird. I want one, like maybe a refurbished iPhone, but Mama says I’m not allowed to get one until I’m 20. She says there are devils in WiFi, and I guess only 20 year olds can resist them. I think that’s stupid, but it’s the rule. I can’t get piercings, either. Or… um… t-tattoos…”

She trails off, awkward and blabbering and three seconds away from physically slapping a hand over her mouth. She should shut up. Why can’t she shut up? Why does she always make herself look like an idiot in front of witty, pretty people? And how could she still possibly feel so hot next to someone so _cool_? Cecelia, possessor of a cell phone of her own, as well as three piercings on each ear and an inked design upon her inner wrist, wrinkles her nose and cocks her head as she endures Ella’s unending word-vomit. She looks annoyed. Ella can’t blame her. She would be annoyed, too. If she wasn’t so busy feeling mortified, anyway.

“...we should probably, er, get back to making this tiramisu,” Ella mumbles, hoping against hope that her voice doesn’t sound as squeaky as she fears it does. As she knows it does. No doubt her face and her hair are a perfect, hideous match, too. Ugh, she’s a mess. “C-can you… Can you read the next few ingredients out to me? I’ll go get them for us.”

Any excuse to get away from here, however briefly.

Cecelia makes an acquiescent sort of sound at the request, elbows on the countertop and one booted foot crossed over the other. Back inverted into a deep arch, she plucks up the recipe card and reads, “One third cup of sugar, six eggs, two table spoons of cocoa, and a date.”

That last ingredient leaves her glossy mouth with a syrupy darkness as sweet as any dessert they might hope to make. Or need to make. For a grade. In the next forty five minutes. But though Ella does her best to refocus her embarrassment and concentrate on their work, there is still something off in her head; she could have sworn she heard Cecelia say… 

“What? Tiramisu doesn’t have any dates in i— oh. _Oh._ ”

Ella’s expression goes slack with understanding. Cecelia’s smirk curls higher, gaining hints of white teeth.

“I’ll get the bill if you get the sugar and eggs and cocoa,” the blonde hopefully adds, cradling her chin in her willowy hands. She winks, teasing, “Then we can both get some ladyfingers.” 

Ella snorts. It is an unbecoming, unintended sound, nearly worse than the earlier sentence-spewing; she doesn’t trust herself to answer further without sounding like she’d recently undergone a lobotomy. But then, the redhead thinks that her own smile rather says enough.

Flushed pink and grinning from ear to ear, Ella leaves to uphold her end of the bargain.


	84. Perfecting

**A/N:** The return of the eldritch family~

**XXX**

“Well, I’ve run some tests,” Carlos announces, the words heavy with the sort of sympathetic solemnity that Cecil often hears doctors use on his favorite television soap operas. The ominous gravity of the declaration pulls down on the Higher’s lips and brow; he frowns, readjusting his hold on his squirming newborn as he watches his friend tape an enlarged x-ray upon the window. The desert sun gleams through the grayscale print, illuminating the pale parts enough for both parents and scientist to see the captured image.

And see they do. They see… something. Something that Cecil recognizes vaguely as the insides of his daughter’s throat. Earl no doubt sees the same, though from the way his head is tilted and his eyes are squinting, he is likely trying to discern more than that. Without success, presumably. The Lesser crosses his arms over his chest, the gesture anxious. His knee is bouncing tirelessly, his freckles a swirl of pride and terror as he glances from his child to his mate to his friend and back again, waiting for something more to go on.

Carlos hesitates another long moment, his vividly white teeth catching upon his lower lip as he flips through a clipboard’s worth of chicken-scratch. He squints at a few of the odder notes, wishing he’d employed more literate chickens, but he has already committed the majority of the results to memory. He’s just never particularly enjoyed being the bearer of bad news. 

“…did the tests come back after you’d let them out to exercise?” Cecil prompts into the awkward hush, a single Tattoo manifesting enough to entertain the ornery infant. Or to give her something to gnaw on, as her binkie had been lost during last week’s centaur stamped. An unfortunately timed accident indeed; the City Council has not yet lifted its One Binkie Per Month edict, and Laura has just begun to grow her first-week canines. The ache of her bitty jaw would’ve had her screaming if she ever did that thing. But she does not. And that is the reason that Cecil and Earl are now sitting in Carlos’ lab, Laura in between them and a picture of her throat upon the pane. The Higher presses, “Did they return with news about Lolo’s condition?”

Carlos, temporarily thrown, flurries his lashes behind the thick lenses of his glasses.

“What?” he automatically questions, caught—as per usual—somewhere between incredulous confusion and genuine curiosity. “Tests are non-sentie— wait. Never mind. That’s not important now. What is, is that… Well, from what I can tell, Laura’s vocal cords never developed. See this spot here?”

The Scientist gestures to said spot, which Cecil and Earl confirm—via brisk nods—that they can see. Once that has been established, Carlos continues, “From what I understand of eldritch anatomy, this is supposed to be her voice box, but it’s… well, it’s not. It’s not really anything. I would hypothesize that such a mutation resulted due to… uh… due to the fact that she is a quasi-hybrid. However, whatever biology is to be blamed for the hindering of her throat’s development doesn’t seem to be causing her undue duress. Or duress at all, really. She just… won’t be able to speak.”

“I see,” Earl says on behalf of himself and his mate. And they really do see, now that Carlos has been kind enough to show them what, exactly, they needed to look at. He and Cecil exchange a sidelong glance, unreadable to the Scientist, as the radio host cradles their tiny bundle of bonnet and blankets. “Well. That explains a lot.”

“But there’s no need to worry!” Carlos quickly adds, plucking the x-ray from the window before it can cause his friends any further stress. He shuffles the print back into his papers, his expression heartening as he tells them, “She is too young for the procedure now, but once she grows a bit, there are surgeries we can do to fix the damage. I can’t tell you how many vocal cords I’ve changed to prevent throat spiders. No doubt the same procedure would allow her to—”

“No, thank you.”

The Scientist falters, educational brochures and a series of leases already half-extracted from his clipboard. His arm remains suspended, his fist full of documents, as he turns his attentions more fully upon the Harlan-Palmers. There is surprise written upon his face, yes, but just as much resides upon the countenances of his companions. “I beg your pardon?"

“I mean, that won’t be necessary,” Earl explains, gentle but blunt. He looks a bit insulted that he’s been required to explain himself, but he is polite enough not to say so. He says instead, “Laura doesn’t need to be fixed. She isn’t broken. She’s perfect just the way she is.”

“W-well, yes, but her voice—”

“You said it’s not causing her any pain, right?” the scoutmaster confirms. When Carlos nods, Earl shrugs, dismissive. “Then that’s that. All we wanted to know was the reason she doesn’t make any sounds, and now we do. To do anything else would be to impede upon her rights. If she wants surgery, she can make that decision for herself when she’s of age.”

“I can’t imagine why she would, though. Voices are such awful burdens,” Cecil tacks on, nose scrunching in distaste. There is an irony to this that Carlos can’t quite put his finger on… At least until he catches a glimpse of his radio’s dials twisting on their own. Wobbles of soft static underscore the Higher’s commentary as he continues, “I didn’t start properly utilizing mine until I was 15. And I might not have bothered at all if I’d been given a choice in the matter. But more to the point... Thank you, Carlos,” he continues, conversationally dismissive as a broader smile overtakes his features. He extends an arm, a wordless cue to be hefted to a stand; Earl leaps up and assists without missing a beat, placing a bracing hand on the small of Cecil’s back. The Higher sways a bit, not quite having rediscovered his equilibrium after 11 months of pregnancy. He has, however, maintained his good humor. He beams brightly, relieved, as he coos to his wriggling child, “Goodness, with how your godfather was looking at us earlier, I thought the news would be bad! I’m glad it was only that. You’re glad too, aren’t you, baby? Aren’t you glad? Yes, you are. Yes, you are! …I mean, I assume. Far be it from me to tell you how to feel.” 

“But it is less far be it from you to tell her that it’s naptime,” Earl teases, his expression positively radiating love and adoration and other heart-meltingly radioactive things as he stamps a kiss to Cecil’s temple. Cecil rocks under the pressure, mulling on this.

“Would the opposite of ‘far me it from me’ be ‘less far be it from me’ or ‘closer be it to me’?”

“Uh… The scientific structures that comprise grammatical nuance would suggest that at that point it’s a matter of changing expressions entirely,” Carlos helpfully assists, earning himself gratified glances from the new parents. The tired, happy, linguistically-challenged new parents, who likely need that nap more than Laura does. But still, Cecil looks blissfully content as he nods his gratitude to the Scientist, toddling off to the laboratory door. His Lesser moves to follow, but is stopped by the touch of a hand against his elbow. Faintly startled, Earl glances back to find a flustered Scientist, his spectacles slipping nervously down the bridge of his nose.

“Earl, I— I apologize,” he says, as soft as the papers that rustle atop the clipboard he nervously clutches. His forehead has furrowed in shame, and his lips are thin with remorse as he expounds, “It wasn’t my intention to suggest that… I had only been hoping to help. Because I want Laura to have every opportunity available to her. I want her to have the best. But I do… I do accept her for who she is, and think she’s perfect that way.”

The scoutmaster blinks, taken aback. His freckles swirl, forming constellations upon the blank canvas of his face. But then he smiles, and Carlos realizes that some of his friend’s earlier affection had been saved for him.

“We know,” Earl then reassures, simply. Appreciatively. “And she knows.”


	85. Nuts

**A/N:** I only just finished the “Christmas on Mars” special, so I apologize for any TAH-related inaccuracies.

**XXX**

“Lolo! What are you doing?! Take off your shoes!” Earl shouts after his sugar-high daughter, limbs tangled and back splayed against the door jamb. He struggles, trying—with varied degrees of success— to wrestle off his own. His cowboy boots don’t have zippers on them, and the thick socks he’d worn to combat the desert night’s chill are making the task a bit difficult. Particularly now that his attention is torn between keeping balanced and keeping the floor clean.

Laura, meanwhile, is busy ‘tracking’ her baby brothers, who had been wrapped in enough aluminum to make them look like poorly constructed automatons. Having been hefted by their Daddy from the confines of their pram, the boys had essentially abandoned one meshwork cage for another. Huddled together within the soft of a playpen, they turn the featureless orbs of their milk-white eyes towards their big sister. Upon the wall, where the elongated swathes of their shadows have unfurled, two pairs of deeply emerald irises are staring, as well—glowing faintly within the boundaries of their humanoid silhouettes. Dale’s shadow cocks its head, much as Dale does; Leland’s shadow seems less interested in the antics of Laura and more interested in the contents of her jack-o-lantern basket. The baby gnaws on a green-tipped fist, mewling hungrily.

“Laura!” Earl calls again, still in the vestibule and cursing silently under his breath. There is a thud, a louder expletive; his ten gallon hat is threatening to do about ten gallons worth of water damage. The Lesser stumbles, half-blinded by his visor, into the decorative aquarium in the foyer; he manages to catch himself just in time, sparing the floor a mess and their anglerfish from death. “I’m serious! I saw you tromp through those puddles!”

_I cannot show you my feet!_ Laura signs, despite that being an awkward thing to do while leaning over the barrier of a playpen. Her hair ripples gently above her head, decorated in feathers and a pair of rubber antennae. Though her Daddy had refused to get her an offensive headdress, he had begrudgingly purchased the twelve-year-old a dress inspired by the apparel of Native Americans. The fringes and beads of its skirt catch against malleable netting as she balances against the pseudo-crib, purposefully stepping on the tips of her muddy moccasins. _Feet are sacred to my people._

“As stainless carpets are to mine. Laura, if you don’t give me your shoes, I will take your candy as compensation,” Earl warns, though he admits to being less intimidating than he’d prefer, bedecked as he is in balloon breasts and a braided yarn wig. The real Red Plains Rider would likely strike fear into the hearts of his children; as it is, all three of his offspring are regarding him like Sadie Doyle might a particularly amusing clown.

_Then I will sacrifice my processed sugar, for I also hold sacred the gloriousness of canon!_ Laura declares, ceremoniously dropping the jack-o-lantern bucket beside her. It clatters against the carpet, hefty with unhealthy treats. In that same moment, the twins’ sentient shadows swoop down from their previous perches, the wispy darkness of their insubstantial fingers poking and prodding curiously at the basket. Within the playpen, Dale claps, giggling gleefully. Leland scowls as his silhouette struggles with the pumpkin’s plastic lid. It is a mighty, fruitless effort. Leland topples over, wriggling like his shadow, as Laura stubbornly asserts, _The Red Plains Rider is not a person worthy of paying witness to the feet of Croach the Tracker._

“Y—! …all right. True,” Earl sighs, his freckles weary as he pulls a palm down his face. “Fair enough,” he begrudgingly acknowledges, internally cursing his weakness for canonical accuracy. “But you know who he _did_ show his feet to…?”

_Sparks Nevada, Marshal on Mars!_ Laura chimes, both in answer and in greeting. Behind the Lesser, Cecil has reappeared in a pair of toy robot fists, having finished closing the garage and setting the bloodstone locks for the night.

“I’m… from Earth,” the Higher announces in response, glancing from his exasperated mate to his overly-wound daughter. There is enough tension between them to merit his asking, “Are there varmints need a’catchin’, or youngins need a’savin’?”

“Not anything of that sort, no. But there _is_ a little Marjun who needs to take off her shoes and have a shower,” Earl drawls, slanting a glance at his husband as he sidles up beside him. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Of course I wouldn’t mind!” Cecil sing-songs, amicable and smiling, before very softly adding, “…so long as it involves stimulating your egg-sacks later.”

Earl snorts, even as a vibrant flush overtakes his cheeks. “Pretty sure Red doesn’t have those things.”

“Really? Have you double checked?”

“No, but you’re welcome to after a certain Tracker goes to bed, and I deposit these two outlaws into their room,” the Lesser murmurs under his breath, tossing his fake plaits over his shoulder again. In reply, Cecil smirks, gives one braid a teasing tug, then marches over to his daughter, fishing a Snickers bar from his pocket as he goes. With an artful flair, he brandishes the candy before him like a sword, making certain that the “contains peanuts” label is clearly visible to his beloved foe. Laura— who had been poised and ready for battle— gasps at the sight of the warning, turning instead to playfully flee, but is still slight enough for her Daddy to gather up in his arms. Using a manifested Tattoo as a lasso, he tosses the candy and captures his child in what might otherwise be considered a very anticlimactic fight.

“All right, then,” Cecil decrees over the silence of Laura’s giggles, “Time to reduce your onus, baby girl.”


	86. Cry

“Coffee….?”

Cecil responds to the croak with one of his own, face-down and drooling on the breakfast table. The clock on the microwave is glowing “3k7:?#,” which reads as gibberish to the Harlan-Palmers, but they are quite sure they’d be able to make sense of it were they able to make sense of anything at all, at present. The lightness of the darkness beyond the window hints at some time right before dawn—when Earl leaves for Tourniquet and Cecil begins ushering Laura around in preparation for school.

First though, Cecil will have to find some way to usher the beverage that had been plopped before him down his throat. It is, perhaps, the greatest challenge he’s ever faced. Or ‘crowned,’ as it were, seeing as his face is still decidedly not doing the thing where it looks at the cup.

“…okay, so this might just be me staring through the rosy glasses of retrospection,” the Lesser mumbles as he settles down a mug of his own, sliding into the seat behind the boiling cupful of caffeinated tar, “but I swear we were not up this often for Laura.”

The Higher, having yet to remember how to properly utilize the muscles of his neck, gropes blindly for the handle of his drink. Earl helpfully repositions the cup, assisting Cecil in sliding his fingers through the grip. With this leverage garnered, Cecil manages to pull himself up just enough to drowsily slur, “We prob’ly _shoulda_ been, though. You know. We likely just didn’t hear her every time.” 

“Mmm,” the Lesser agrees. Then, belatedly, he nods, the motion heavy. His freckles—too sleepy to cling to his face—ooze wearily down his cheeks and neck, disappearing beyond the collar of his shirt. “Now I feel terrible for entirely new reasons, thanks.”

Cecil clicks his tongue as one might when brandishing finger guns, but for the time he leaves such weapons undrawn. It had taken effort enough to get a hand around this mug. He’d be damned if he let it go now. Especially before he had a chance to work out the logistics of drinking from it. The Higher stares sightlessly downward, wondering if the pain of second degree burns was worth the instant jolt he’d receive from allowing his head to droop…

“…aaaaaaa _aaaAAAAAAAAAA_ —!”

“—!” Cecil shudders himself upright, dazedly turning to look towards the twin’s bedroom. As he does so, the first boy’s sobs begin to rouse the second; a series of snuffles and revving cries exacerbate the original racket, and in the deepest, darkest, most inappropriate corners of his sleep-deprived brain, the Higher wonders if he’s retroactively paying for the luxury of a mute first-born. He’d feel guiltier about this horrible thought if Earl wasn’t clearly wondering the same thing.

“…babies are calling,” the Lesser points out after another long moment of screams and stupors. Cecil grunts.

“Tell ‘em to leave a message.”

“C’mon, they’re gonna wake Lolo. Or the neighbors. Or Cthulhu,” Earl adds, only half-joking as the twins’ screams harmonize. “We gotta… you know… do the thing.”

“Uggggh.” The Higher moans, his head lolling back and his tone caught somewhere between sincere exasperation and solemn sarcasm. “I guess ancient, terrible gods would be slightly more of a pain to lull back to sleep…”

“Right, so. On three.”

“Fine.”

“One…”

“Mm.”

“Two…”

“Hngh.”

“Eight!”

“…you mean three?”

“Probably. Math is hard,” Earl dully intones, his expression somber as he forces himself to his feet. He’d feel dumber if anyone else seemed to understand numbers at too-early-o’clock, but even the microwave is flashing “0g:99@z.” He thinks that’s indicative of something, though he can’t be sure of what, right now. He’s not even sure why he’d been thinking of the microwave in the first place. Oh well. It’s not what’s important. What’s important is… Um…

" _AAAAAAAAAAAA!_ ”

Oh, right.

“Let’s go,” Earl declares, offering his mate a hand. Cecil whines, but does as he is told: grabbing his husband’s fingers with more ease and coordination than he’d managed with the coffee. For whatever reason, this makes the Higher smile. Blearily, yes, but genuinely. Earl returns the expression in kind as Cecil stands and reminds: 

“Let’s go.”


	87. Pistachios

**A/N:** Post-56~

**XXX**

"Ooo, Earl! Oh no, no, no! You shouldn't serve this on a date! What were you thinking?

"Huh? But I thought you...? I-- I'm sorry, are you allergic to nuts?! Masters, I'll just--!"

"Sweet Spire, don't be silly. I _love_ nuts."

"...was that an entendre?"

"I'll leave that to you to decide. But the point I was trying to make _was_ about the nuts. You know that pistachios have been used for centuries to break love spells, right? They're very potent when ingested. So to offer me this dessert _must_ be some sort of mistake. I mean, all the hard work you undoubtedly put into casting whatever curse now consumes me might just be broken if I eat this pudding."

"Wh-- Cecil! I didn't put you under a love spell! I would never...! I mean, that would be intrusive and--"

"What? You didn't? But then, why do I feel so very _charmed_...?"

"...that silver tongue of yours will be the death of me."

"Perhaps. But I can assure you that it would be a most pleasurable death."

"Now that was _definitely_ an entendre."

"It was! So too is how I'm about to use this spoon."

"What do you mea--...? Oh. _Oh._ W-wow. Indeed, that is an-- uh. Hngh. Y-you're not... Um, you're not even eating the pudding..."

"Well, just in case, you know. I rather enjoy being under your spell. But do you know what I might enjoy even more, Mister Chef...?"

"Gelato?"

"Being under _you._ "

"...that's a somewhat unconventional order."

"But I do believe you capable of bringing it to the table, as they say. Speaking of, I notice you're not eating your dessert, either. If you'll permit one more entendre: Have you finished...?"

"Ha. Not until you have."


	88. Again

"Do it again."

"No."

"Oh, c'moooooon~ It's so cute! So nostalgic! Just once more, please?"

"Cecil, it's not like I can control when I--" Earl begins, exasperated, only to interrupt his own tirade by doing exactly as asked. He hiccups, the sound shrill. Childish. The motion wracks up and down and through his body, causing the redhead to wiggle. It also causes his husband to giggle, seal-clapping with delight.

"Again! Again!" Cecil croons, thrilled and pink-faced, as Earl flushes for entirely different reasons. Most of these reasons are due to good old-fashioned embarrassment, but a few are related to the way his lover is nuzzling against him, splayed both beside and atop Earl on the long leather couch. It's horrifying enough that automatic bodily functions-- of _this_ sort, that is-- had cut short an intense makeout session. What somehow makes it worse is how thrilled this new turn of events had made his husband. "Again, Early!"

"Not if I can help it..." Earl mumbles, his freckles swallowed up by a surge of cherry-red. Cecil smirks at this, nestling and clinging and looping a leg through Earl's as he teases:

"That's just it-- you can't!"

"I could if I tried! I got a badge and-- _hic!_ "

"Eeeee heehee! Again! Again!"

"...you are a di-- _hic_."

"And you are the best, baby."


	89. Immersion

**A/N:** Post 56~

**XXX**

“Sooo, you know I’m not a chef, right?”

“I am vaguely aware of that fact, yes.”

“Yeah, so, like, I don’t mean to be a backseat cook, or anything—I _do_ assume you know what you’re doing,” Cecil drawls, his bodyweight nonchalantly balanced between his elbows as he leans against the island table, one foot tapping idly and his chin in his willowy hands, “but I can’t help thinking that—unless you’re making a recipe from the Natural Harvest Cookbook—, it’s not really appropriate to use a vibrator as a mixer.”

On the opposite side of the counter, his scoutmaster uniform shrouded by a bloodstained apron, Earl begins to violently choke. And yet, it isn’t a lack of oxygen that has his face turning as red as his hair. The bowl that he’d been holding sloshes dangerously as it threatens to slip from his grasp, along with the suspiciously shaped and oddly pulsating rod that he’d stuck into it. 

“This is an immersion blender,” the other’s boyfriend manages to splutter a moment later, his cinnamon-dust freckles all but swept away in the crimson tide of his flush. “It’s a simpler, more effective alternative to a traditional blender.”

“Is that so? Well, it certainly looks like a _pleasure_ to use.”

“Cecil.”

“I bet this cake will be orgasmically good.”

“Cecil..."

“Wow, you really know how to handle that thing. Nnn, oh _yes,_ just like _that._ That’s right, that spot _there_ —!”

“Cecil! Please do not _moan_ while I’m using my—”

“Sexy chef vibrator?”

“— _immersion blender!_ Sweet Spire, I would not use a sex toy in the kitchen! Not for, you know, _baking,_ anyway,” Earl snaps, his flustered hiss becoming a horrified whisper as he stumbles over one or two very specific words in his retort. He shudders, adding, “Ugh. That would be completely unhygienic. This is a cooking implement. It’s not a vibrator.”

Readjusting his grip on his utensils, the sous chef shoots an obvious glance at the microwave clock— which today is displaying the time in wingdings— not bothering to hide his concern that his teenage daughter might walk in on the tail end of this wholly inappropriate conversation.

Apparently, he’s not the only one thinking of the high schooler.

Cecil snorts, rolling his eyes in a teasing sort of way as he rebuffs, “Ha. Yeah, sure, not a vibrator. I believe you. Just like I believed Laura iiiiiin a conversation that I may have promised not to tell you about regarding that one time I helped her clean up her room. Crap,” the radio host scowls, his brow furrowing deeply and in obvious guilt. Waving a hand before his face, Cecil implores his boyfriend, “Pretend I didn’t say anything, okay?”

“…believe me when I say that I fully intend to spend the remainder of my life doing exactly that.”

“Oh, good. Phew!” Cecil regains his smile as he relaxes, releasing a blustery sigh of relief. His sunny demeanor is both the exact opposite of and the perfect complement to the storminess of his lover’s mortification. “I’d hate for Laura to think that I’d intentionally betrayed her trust or anything. I really want us all to be close! So I’m trying to bond with her when and how I can, you know?”

“I…” Earl blinks. The motion is so incredibly measured and slow, it seems as if all of his energy had been dedicated towards it. And perhaps it had: his face is utterly devoid of emotion, and his bowl and blender have found new homes on the counter. With great effort, the chef finally manages, “…please do not bond with my sixteen year old over masturbatory aids.”

His boyfriend frowns at this, seemingly bemused. “Well, what should we bond over, then?”

“Literally anything else.”

“…unprotected premarital sex with boys?”

“Almost literally anything else.”

“Just regular old premarital sex with boys?”

“ _Masters,_ how about something a little less _intimate,_ like—I don’t know— premarital cougar wrestling?” Earl all but pleads, the blots upon his cheeks threatening to turn from red to violet. “Or premarital Monopoly tournaments? Or premarital dessert eating?”

“Hmmm. Well, I’m certainly not _opposed_ to any of those suggestions… But if you want us to talk about that last thing, you’re gonna have to get back to thrusting that ‘blender’ of yours hard and deep into— _Ooo!_ I can feel it vibrate through the table! _Mmm_ ~” 

Cecil giggles, shifting forward just enough for Earl to notice that he had. Dark gods below. Waggling his eyebrows and donning a smirk, the radio host licentiously appends, “You’ll let me lick the tip clean after you’ve finished, right...?”

Earl responds by cranking up the blender and pretending not to have heard that.


	90. Smile

"You certainly put the 'bad' in 'badge.'"

"Oh, shut up," Cecil scoffs, the sludge's suction snapping soundly around his ankles as he tries to wade from the sticky mire. The void-black muck has the consistency of half-tacky glue, and keeps trying to pull him back into despair; it is only by way of Earl's assistance and a naturally sunny disposition that Cecil manages to heft himself to the muddy shoreline of the tar-slop puddle. "I'm not doing _that_ terribly. And like _you_ managed your Find Your Way Home badge on the first try."

"Actually, I _did_ ," Earl retorts, giving his eyes a fond roll as-- with a full-bodied heave-- Cecil pops free of the pit. The elder scout is still not entirely certain how his friend had wound up there in the first place. Earl is quite sure that their scoutmaster had told them to avoid such traps... Cecil wasn't normally such a bad listener. But hey-- at least he'd dodged the quick-silver and and slow-sand. Those were much more obnoxious to deal with. "I managed it in 39 hours... and with my clothes _on_."

"Well, where's the challenge in that?" Cecil smirks, rebuffing Earl's obvious disapproval as he peels off his stained socks and gummy slacks. "Oh, I'm teasing. Don't get your knickers in a knot, Early. I'm just putting on fresh stuff. I packed spares in case of bloodshed or stylistic emergency. You know that the fashion police have been particularly brutal, lately."

"Yeah, but..." 

The redhead frowns as his companion pulls on his replacements, all of which appear to have shrunk a few sizes in the wash. Not that Cecil cares. In fact, he seems far more comfortable in his short-shorts and sheer, psychedelic print stockings. He happily wiggles his toes in the gaps of his sandaled stilettos as he straps them. Then, contented and comfortable once more, Cecil pushes himself back to his feet. Oddly, while his friend is the dirty one, _Earl_ suddenly feels like he needs a shower. A cold one.

The redhead glances towards the sky, clearing his throat and trying to assume an authoritative tone. He manages a compromising warble . "You know that you should only wear the regulation uniform when scouting, right, Cee?"

"And _you_ know that you're never fully dressed without a smile, right, Earl?" Cecil counters, missing neither a beat nor an opportunity to prod at a ticklish side. "So at least I'm not the naked one, right now."

"Wha-- I'm not naked!" Earl squeaks, mortified. In an instant, his cheeks are as deeply scarlet as his hair; he glowers at Cecil, who in the wake of so effective a tease is wearing a smirk wide enough to dress two people. He had donned such an expression with intention, if the way he is inching closer to his elder is any indication. The freckled scout scrubs at his face, groaning faintly as spindled arms coil securely around him and that leer is draped against his shoulder. " _Hngh_ \-- I take it back... Y-you put the 'bad' in more than just 'badge."

"Hmm, yes. And I'd like to put the 'bad' in _you,_ too, if you'll let me~" Cecil purrs, nestling and nuzzling and oh-so-subtly plucking at the plastic buttons of Earl's uniform. The push-pull motion brings their hips together-apart-together, zippers clattering and hands groping as the redhead hiccups, weakly reminding:

"It's-- it's s-scout regulation to r-remain dressed at all times during... m-meets or related a-- _ah_ \-- activities..."

Cecil giggles, giving his companion's throat a nip.

"Oh, I know. But don't worry, Early," he coos, even as he wrestles down the other's tightening trousers. "I'll make sure you're always fully dressed."


	91. Study Hall

"Ah-- crap. Hey, Harlan. Pst. Hey."

"Quiet during study hall, Palmer."

"Yeah, yeah, sorry. But can you do me a favor?"

"Hmm?"

"I just dropped my pen, and it's rolled next to your desk. Grab it for me?"

"Oh. Yeah, sure."

"Great, thank y-- ...uh. Earl? Earl, it's right there, you don't need to stand u-- ...!"

"Here you go."

"..."

"Here."

"..."

"Or I'll just put it back on your desk for you. That works, too."

"..."

"And you're welcome, by the way."

"Er-- oh, yeah, sorry, I... Um... Earl?"

"Quiet during study hall, Palmer."

"Yeah, yeah, I know, but-- uh... was that-- was that the Bend and Snap?"

"Like I said. You're welcome, Cecil."


	92. Trick

“I can.”

“You cannot.”

“I can. It’s an amazing trick.”

“Cecil,” Earl says, his arms bound across his chest in much the same way that ropes are bound across his boyfriend’s. “I spent years perfecting my technique. I studied dozens of Scout books. I've earned tons of badges. There is literally no way you’re gonna get out of those.”

“Shows what you know,” the other snorts, sprawled across the couch in a tangle of appendages and woven cords. He undulates, wriggling within the trap of his lover’s handiwork and legs. “I’ve got my ways. You’re gonna be so impressed.”

“I’m gonna be so something, all right,” the redhead mumbles, clearing his throat as Cecil’s wormy-squirming has them rub-rubbing together in numerous ways. Intimate ways. He tries to scoot away or to outright remove himself from the sofa, but Cecil lifts his knees and grinds them into Earl’s lower back, keeping him very much in place. That thrust of wordless insistence actually sets the scoutmaster a bit off balance; he cants forward in a fashion which does not help matters, catching himself on a particularly intricate knot. He can feel his insides begin to form similar knots, almost as acutely as he can feel Cecil’s heady breath against his cheek…

Earl coughs to drown out a deeper, cruder sound, lashes and heartbeat fluttering as his lover’s erratic writhing becomes far more focused. “B-Babe. What’re you doing…?”

“If I’m lucky, you,” Cecil coos, grinning smugly within his cocoon of ropes. The scoutmaster chokes on another sound, this one far more amused.

“You can’t use your hands, pretty thing. Or arms. And you’re not quite _that_ dexterous with your legs.”

“Hm.” The younger man considers, using his aforementioned legs to ensnare his chuckling boyfriend as best as he can. Not that Earl is trying to escape, but it seems only fair, considering. “Then I guess you’ll just have to do me, instead.”

“Will I?”

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Was this your plan from the start?”

“Would you care if it was?”

The redhead doesn’t bother answering that. Nor does he choose to acknowledge Cecil’s cheekiness, instead turning his attention to other sorts of cheeks. He kisses one, flushed with excitement. He caresses another, the smooth flesh blooming with roses in the wake of a teasing smack. Cecil’s bound arms wind up above his head, providing his lover a grip by which to steady himself. And Earl does. He braces and he thrusts, nails grinding into skin and hemp as he knots their bodies in new, exotic ways. Thick ropes shift and chafe and groan even louder than the men, the plaited cords shining with the oily residue of leaked lubrication. 

“Mm— nnn—! Oh, _oh_ , yes, Early—! There, please, th—!”

“Cecil, y— hngh…!”

“A-Ah…!”

Earl cannot resist biting the plump of the thigh that soon rests against his shoulder, using the leverage of several cords to yank his lover _back._ Then fore. Then back, then fore, his hips mirroring those motions as he drives himself deeper and deeper, faster and faster. Cecil, meanwhile, whimpers and whines, his curling toes snaring against the fabric of his boyfriend’s shirt. His beautiful voice imitates every squeak and moan of the ropes, drowning out the obscene smack of other things with heft and girth. He keens, he cries; he positively wails as release shudders through him, brought about by fingers working as cleverly with him as they might with a length of rope. Earl follows a few moments later, tugging so brusquely on Cecil’s reigns that the latter is as dramatically arched as his lover when need finally trumps desire. 

They are left panting. Spent. Bound together, Earl raking a hand through damp tresses as he gasps:

“Oh… Oh, Cecil, babe, that was h— holy hells, are you okay?!” 

“Hm? Pardon…? Am I—? Oh.”

Satiated and beautifully dazed, the younger of the two glances down at his prone body, making note of the red-rash burns that are smoldering to life atop his limbs. He winces, settling back against the couch; there is a tick to his eye that indicates discomfort as the sting of raw flesh begins to mount. Still, he assures, “Never mind that. I’m fine, Birdie. Don’t worry—I asked for it.”

“Are you kidding? Sweetheart, geez— we need to put some ointment on that, hold still,” Earl frets, still damp with sweat and spatters of his lover’s orgasm as he begins frantically tugging at Cecil’s bindings. The ropes are loose in a matter of seconds; he coils them, speedily and neatly, without ever once turning his attentions away from scrutinizing his boyfriend. “Okay… okay. All right, these look pretty superficial…”

“Pft. I would imagine. I was only tied up for, like, 10 minutes.”

“Shush. I’m going to go get the aloe from the fridge,” Earl declares, twisting to do just that… But is again stopped by the pseudo-lasso of Cecil’s long legs. More disturbing still is his matching, loopy smile. The redhead frowns, bemused. “What is it, Cee?”

“I did it,” the younger giggles, looking altogether too self-satisfied for one who hadn’t had to, well, self-satisfy. Earl’s expression further furrows in bewilderment. 

“You… what?”

“I did it,” Cecil repeats, his leer now sharp with teeth. “Are you impressed?”

The scoutmaster blinks. Stares. First at his boyfriend, then at the yards of rope that lie in jumbled spools upon the carpet. Then back again. Then—

“…God dammit.”


	93. Terminology

**A/N:** Sequel to "Ultrasound."

**XXX**

“Now, I know you’re both still a little surprised by this current turn of events—”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

“—but such an unexpected biological boon is very scientifically interesting, so I hope you won’t mind my asking a few questions about this phenomenon,” Carlos continues, perched on the edge of a worn spindly chair with a clipboard in one hand and a pen in the other. He had pealed a “municipally approved!!” sticker from the cover of one of his novels and had stuck it to the utensil’s cap; thus far, it has proved an effective measure by which to fool the SSP. He taps the biro against his notes, looking as intrigued as his friends do rumpled. And they do look very rumpled. This may partly be due to the window that Earl’s cry of shock had shattered, and how blustery the day is. It is more likely due, however, to the make-out session that Carlos had awkwardly interrupted when he’d returned to the lab with some calming tea. Even now, his friends are sprawled one atop the other: back to stomach and nestled close, with Cecil’s head cradled upon Earl’s shoulder as Earl pets at the taut of his lover’s lower belly. They exchange a sidelong glance, idly considering the Scientist’s proposal. Then, just as idly, they nod.

“Go ahead. We owe you that much, at least,” Earl verbalizes, his smile gaining a sheepish lilt when a particularly noisy gust whistles through the window. “…and a few hundred more.”

“Thank you,” Carlos says, ever polite. He is a consummate professional, after all. Clearing his throat, he glances again at his charts and data and research notes and calmly inquires, “Well, then, question one: Cecil, how often do you go down on Earl?”

Silence. Even the wind stops howling, certain it must have misheard.

“…I beg your pardon?” the Higher asks after a long moment, frowning in mild confusion. His eyes are wide and curious, as if he had misunderstood some innocuous comment about the flavor of the tea; behind him, Earl’s eyes are narrowed, as if he had not only heard that same comment, but had vehemently disagreed with it. The arm he has curled around his mate’s chest tightens, the palm atop the other’s tummy settling pointedly. Carlos wonders for a moment where Earl’s hair ends and his face begins, as both are suddenly, flamingly red. He worries that his own features might be ignited by similar fires, but for the time being manages to retort with efficiency and composure.

“I apologize. As scientific terminology sometimes convolutes the intended meaning of questions, I thought that using the colloquialism would prove to be the more effective way to pose my query. Obviously I was mistaken. Allow me to try again,” Carlos declares, readjusting his glasses as he again somberly considers the impregnated Higher. “Cecil, how frequently do you perform oral sex on your husband? Specifically the kind which involves the consumption of his sperm?”

Cecil blinks. He also licks his lips, which somehow makes this exchange all the more embarrassing. “…you want to know if I spit or swallow?” he paraphrases, settling more comfortably against his lover. Perhaps he is the only comfortable one in the room, at this point.

“Yes,” Carlos calmly asserts. “For science.”

Earl chokes a bit on a flustered cough, burrowing closer to Cecil and mumbling into his Tattooed neck, “I’m not sure if I want science knowing that…”

He sounds mortified, but his concerns are rebuffed with an affectionate snort. Cecil rolls his eyes, giving his husband’s crown a fond pat and his ear a teasing nip. “Oh, don’t be such a prude, Early. I’m sure science wants to know for perfectly innocent reasons,” the radio host assures, his deeply violet gaze cutting sidelong towards the Scientist.

The Higher then arches a brow, pointed. Carlos takes the expression as the prompt that it is.

“Science is hoping to correlate patterns between human and eldritch biology,” he swiftly explains, gesticulating animatedly towards the abandoned—and now, completely broken—ultrasound. He hopes that his doing so will remind the couple of the confusion that they had previously been expressing, and their desires to understand how this accident, however fortunate, had happened. But, failing that, it will at least remind them that they broke Carlos’ very expensive science toy, and therefore can’t be too angry with him. He continues, “The fertility rate of human females increases—if slightly—in those who have consumed the sperm of their sexual partners numerous times. Their bodies are less inclined to prevent the intrusion of those materials which they recognize.”

“Interesting,” Cecil coos at this, sounding very interested indeed. At least, Carlos assumes that’s interest glittering beneath the hoods of his lashes. Twining his arm more fully around his mate, the Higher gives ginger hair a teasing tug and summarizes, “So you’re saying that my body is so used to Earl’s sperm that it pretty much lets it do whatever it wants, regardless of what season it is?”

“That is my current hypothesis,” Carlos confirms, giving a brisk nod. Cecil mimics this motion. Earl, in turn, doesn’t so much ‘nod’ as he does ‘bury his face against Cecil’s nape and refuse to look up when the other kisses his cheek.’

“Birdie, that’s it. We figured it out,” the Higher trills as he does so, underscoring each excited declaration with a nibble and a serpentine flick of his tongue. Lithe, painted fingers continue to pet and ruffle his lover’s locks as Cecil cheerfully surmises, “I didn’t show your sperm nearly enough discipline and I wound up spoiling it. Well, I’ll sure show it when we get home—I’m going to give it such a tongue lashing. A bit of finger waggling and a spanking or two should be enough to put it in its place.”

“Sweet Spire.” The Lesser responds with a weak hiccup, the sound comprised partly of laughter, partly of mortification. Mostly that latter thing. With a desperate whimper, Earl hunches all the closer to his mate, his freckles a flurry of embarrassed punctuation marks as he squeaks, “Cecil, please.”

“Oh my.” The other giggles, the hand that is not caressing his husband’s face instead moving to caress that palm atop his belly. Cecil strokes the tender skin of Earl’s hand as Earl had been stroking his own, urging those fingers a touch or two lower as he croons, “Save the begging for later, silly. Carlos is here now. It’s science time, not biology time…”

“Er, actually…” Carlos clears his throat, somehow thinking it prudent to remind the others of his presence, even as they discuss him. It’s not an unprecedented decision, he reasons; these two can be a bit forgetful, at times. He knows this from experience. And though ‘observation’ is an acknowledged component of scientific study, well… Um… “I think science knows all that it needs to, for now. More than it needs to, in some respects. Let’s resume this later… and, er, maybe over the phone.”


	94. Generosity

“Are you sure you’re okay…?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Earl grins, speaking in the sort of sing-song voice that would find a Disney princess surrounded by bluebirds. And indeed, the way he twirls through the bedroom has Cecil thinking of Rapunzel or Anna or even Aurora, all flounces and twitters and grins. The Higher might worry that his mate had finally snapped if he had the strength to do so. But he is still beyond exhausted, a mass of excess skin and limbs. His Tattoos remain wearily splayed across the mattress, the scars of his once-elongated lips cutting to the base of his pointed ears. He has, at least, managed to coax five of his bleary eyes back into the ether; the extra that remains joins Cecil’s human pair in crinkling when he smiles, comfortably buried in stuffed toys and blankets.

“Well, I’m afraid I haven’t been much help this week,” the Higher points out, in a voice oddly rasped from agonized howling. He grunts his thanks as Earl settles a tray before him, laden with soup and fruits and a bit of gall stone pudding for dessert. After a valiant attempt to sit himself up, Cecil sighs and acquiesces to the help his husband offers. “I was out of bed much faster after Lolo was born…”

“Maybe, but there was just the one of her. This took twice as much out of you,” Earl reasons, fluffing feather pillows and stamping a kiss to Cecil’s temple. He has to bow forward to do so, which in turn jostles the baby carrier strapped to his chest; a dozing Leland nestles closer to his Papa as he is dipped, his sleepy shadow coiling more tightly around Earl’s hips. Upon Earl’s back, safely harnessed into a carrier of his own, Dale mirrors his brother’s reaction, his shade cuddled about the redhead’s waist. “Don’t worry about it, Cee. You’ve been taking care of the twins for nearly a year, now. Let me and Laura have a turn, okay?”

“Mmm… Fine, I guess,” Cecil agrees, if begrudgingly, as his lilac-tipped fingers worry at the edges of a long strip of gauze. The bandage is still fresh enough to bear violet spatters, much like the eiderdown that his mate had earlier been forced to burn. It was an unlucky loss, the Higher thinks—he’d been quite fond of those sheets. Unfortunately, his sporadic omnipotence did not generally extend to cosmic advice about the laundry, nor when he might expect to go into an early, unexpectedly violent labor. But all’s well that ends well—or ends, if nothing else—and he supposes Laura will soon need new sandals anyway, so he’ll just buy something cheap and cute at Macy’s when he can find the strength to drag himself out of bed. In the meantime, he is content to allow his husband to smack his hand away from his stitches and refocus his wandering attentions on breakfast. “But don’t take that turn too far away… It’s lonely, not having them so close anymore.”

“Kind of an empty feeling, I imagine,” Earl teases, accepting a well-deserved glare for his joke. “Don’t worry, pretty thing. I’ll be here all day—just gonna do some cooking and cleaning. There’s still blood and soul sludge in the bathroom… And the towels will need to be incinerated, too.”

Oh, yes. The Higher frowns, mentally adding to his Macy’s list. “What about the knives and stuff?”

“Eh. A good scrub in holy water and a few weeks buried in grave soil and they should be safe for use again. Though I might just save us the trouble and go to Sears, if there’s a sale.” 

“Or I could check Amazon,” Cecil suggests helpfully, nibbling the tip of a strawberry he plucks from his meal. His Lesser’s responding smile is fond, if exasperated, as he reminds:

“You’re supposed to rest.”

“I never agreed to that. Just to letting you take care of the babies. Besides,” Cecil argues, with a pathetic little twitch of an oily tendril, “using the internet won’t tucker me out. There’s nothing so brainless as online shopping. Except, you know, a lobotomy, I guess.”

“Ha. Well, fair enough. I’ll bring you your laptop when I come collect your dishes,” the redhead assents with a snort, giving a quick nip to the deeply purple bruise placed possessively on his husband’s nape. Possessively, and frantically. Gratefully too, amidst tears of joy and relief in the aftermath of an improvised birth. As it had that very first time—and has every time since—the rushed release of bonding pheromones that the embrace elicits has Cecil shivering pleasantly, keening aloud. His cheeks turn beautifully lavender as he nestles against his mate, hands reaching out to bequeath similar affection upon his napping sons. He pulls away only when Earl does, though not without a kiss and a parting promise.

“That does it. I am gonna buy you the awesomest new knife set I can find,” the Higher avows, cradling his lover’s flushed cheeks as he resettles atop the bed. “You deserve it after all of this. Just wait. It’ll be, like, the very best one that they have… that is over 50% off, obviously.”

“Wow. Such generosity.” The Lesser chuckles, his freckles a swirling mass of interwoven hearts as Cecil leans back, still crooning sweetly. The babies snuffle; their parents giggle. Nose brushes nose, and smile incites smile. “Who could ask for anything more?”


	95. Eyes for You

Pregnancy changes a body.

Duh. Cecil had known that much beforehand. He isn’t stupid, after all. He had done his research. He had watched movies. By the Spire, it’s not as if he had never _seen_ a pregnant person. He had. He’d seen pregnant non-people, too. He had known to expect backaches and upset stomachs and bloating and swollen feet. He had been prepared for an expanding waistline and sensitive breast tissue and all the hormonal imbalances that came with an endocrine system sent into overdrive. And so what, he had thought, if his entrails got a bit squished or distended or pulped in the process of gestating his young; it wasn’t like anyone was going to see his innards, anyway.

But his outers…

Yeah, Earl is going to notice this.

“What the actual hell—?!” Cecil whimpers, alarmed tears welling up to sting in the corners of his eyes. All of his eyes. Not just the usual two, but _three_ — glassy and violet and smack-dab in the center of his forehead, its amethyst gaze blurry from a sheen of leaking, mildly acidic liquid. He had caught his first glimpse of it while Skyping his sister, having had a few questions about Janice’s upcoming birthday party— like whether or not someone had already bought her a titanium set of hunting knives, and if not would she like one— only to glance down and notice that his mirrored image in the corner of the screen was staring out at the world with more intensity than before. The Higher’s yelp of horror had somehow managed to trump the one his sister had made when he had begun verbally contemplating buying his niece a wheelchair jet pack. His shock is so great, he even forgets his own self-imposed rule about bad language in the presence of his growing child. “Where the _fuck_ did that come from?!”

He is answered as if by the dark gods. That is to say, he is answered by a maliciously sonorous chuckle from somewhere below. Specifically, his iPhone 5.7.

“ _Welcome to month eight,_ ” his sister says with a laugh, the low lilt of her amusement snaring on unvoiced ‘I warned you’s and ‘I told you so’s. There is, Cecil thinks, an undeniable touch of schadenfreude in her smirk as she salutes and ends their call.

For lack of a sibling to be bitter with, Cecil scowls at his own reflection in the black of his touch screen, poking gently at the third eye that he normally has no trouble keeping secret. Sweet Spire, on an average day he actually finds it easier to maintain his human form over his eldritch one. But pregnancy messes everything up, the Higher has long since learned, and that apparently includes aspects of his superficial biology. Having spent the whole of his life on this plane of existence, he had totally forgotten to take that into consideration. Poxes and damnation.

Well. There’s little to be done now, sans assess the damage and prepare for the worst. Cecil gnaws on an increasingly plum-colored lip, wondering if he might yet be able to dig out some sort of headband or bandana to hide those abnormalities that others might find distasteful. No doubt things will only escalate from here, but if he can at least ease his more humanoid lover into the reality of the situation, then—

“I’m back!”

Somewhere, the Higher knows that the stupid dark gods are laughing again. Probably in his sister’s voice, too.

Jumping—or jostling, really, as he is far too heavy to gain much air— a startled Cecil squeaks and instinctively clutches his belly, tears of panic slipping down his chin when the front door slams to a cheerful open. Earl bustles inside with bags full of groceries, humming a jolly tune. Biologically friendly, reusable cloth sacks rustle as they are gingerly placed on the hardwood floor, temporarily abandoned so that the Lesser might skip over to the sofa. Earl can’t see Cecil’s face over the crest of the couch, but the crown of his pale head is visible enough to let the Scoutmaster know where his mate is resting. Grinning brightly as he trills a hello, the redhead playfully leans over his lover, planning to stamp a kiss to his forehead.

But instead, of course, he freezes. Gawps. Lashes flurrying and his features upside down, Earl hovers before the unexpected, additional stare.

“Oh.”

Everything is happening in the blink of one-eye-too-many. Cecil’s heart hammers against his chest, his lips as dry as his gaze is wet as he hiccups, “Birdie, I—”

“ _Oh,_ masters of us all, you just get more and more beautiful by the day!” Earl gushes, his voice a lovey-dovey amalgam of pheromones and adoration as his freckles melt like snowflakes down the pale of his face, gathering in a flush near his hairline. He shifts just enough to kiss Cecil’s crown instead—then his temple, and his ear, and his neck—, adding a nestled nibble for good measure. Then he re-gathers his bags and tromps towards the kitchen, calling, “I’m thinking of liver stew for dinner. Do you and baby want extra liver in your portion? Or maybe some greens? Oh! Or I got some veined nutmeg, since you’ve been craving it, lately…” 

Cecil sniffles. Reassess all that had and had not just happened.

Then he smiles, stroking the wriggling taut of his stomach as he shyly decides, “Something with extra vitamin A, please.”


	96. Fantasy

**A/N:** Affectionate shout-outs to Dangersocks and Jathis. ;)

**XXX**

"Okay so."

"So."

"Let's say-- hypothetically-- that I'm some posh gentleman of pedigree."

"By which you don't mean the pet food."

"Ew, no. Geez, I mean, like, someone from the victorian gentry."

"Like a viscount?"

"Oh, come on, Early! Use your imagination! If I'm going to bother pretending, then I'm going to give myself more status than _that_!"

"All right, all right. I mean, there's nothing wrong with being a viscount, but hey. It's your fantasy. A king, then?"

"Blegh, too much responsibility. No, I'm going to say... a marquis."

"And what about me?"

"Well, isn't it obvious? You'd be an earl."

"Pft. _Now_ who needs to use their imagination..."

"Shut up. Right, so. I'm a marquis and you're an earl and we live in an era of chivalry and pretty clothes. How do you woo me?"

"With an upward motion of my arms. Wooooo~"

"...I am not afraid to smack your freckled scoutmaster butt."

"Is that meant to discourage or encourage me? I'm honestly not sure."

"And you're not going to find out until you answer my question properly."

"Right, right. Let's see. Well, knowing you, you'd be a bit reclusive... More inclined to narrate from the sidelines than to dive headlong into the insanity of high society. So I guess I'd start by finding where you were hiding at some party or another and come up with a clever way to get your attention."

"Such as?"

"Maybe I'd steal your food."

"That seems more rude than clever."

"Yeah, but see, that would get you talking to me. Irritation is more likely to get a tongue wagging than anything else. And _my_ tongue is never more silver than when I need to charm my way out of a tight spot--"

"Or _into_ a tight spot..."

"--so no doubt we'd hit it off pretty quick."

"Mmm... I dunno, maybe I'd find such juvenile tricks distasteful."

"Well, even if you did, no doubt I'd be head over heels for you after just one conversation. And when I feel very strongly, I have a tendency to be quite tenacious."

"That's true. So, what would you do then?"

"Seek out your company and try to befriend you properly, I suppose. Visit your house. Bring you gifts."

"Would you bring me flowers?"

"Trick question. You don't like flowers."

"I take it back. You _are_ a clever boy. Well then, what would you give me?"

"All of myself, of course."

"Oh, you romantic! Would you come to me tied in a bow?"

"Well, bows were pretty vogue back then, as I recall. So probably."

"Would you wear a cloak, too? Mmm, it'd be so fun to unwrap you from one of those~"

"If it pleases my lord..."

" _Fweee!_ B-Birdie...! Oh, that was too much for my little heart. _Hngh_ , you'll be the end of me, at this rate."

"That is the plan. Rather, my plan is to be the one who brings you to your finish."

"Naughty boy~ But go on, go ahead. Such silly stories should have a happy ending, after all."

"I agree. And I am very, very happy, Cee."

"Me too, Early. Me too."


	97. Pimple

**A/N:** High school dorks.

**XXX**

"Elder gods below, take pity on my tortured soul!"

"Cecil."

"Oh, masters-- oh mercy! I feel my stomach turning... I feel the bile rising... I'm hideous!"

"Cecil. You have a pimple."

"I am a grotesque, putrid shell of my former self, secreting odorous oozes and oils!"

"Yeah, that's called puberty. And it has resulted in one pimple."

"Ugh, I can feel it practically pulsating on my face!"

" _One_ pimple."

"And it hurts! It hurts me, Earl! The bloated, bulbous, cancerous thing has stretched my skin so thin, so very thin, that I feel my flesh threatening to burst!"

"It's not even that noticeable. Seriously. I have bigger freckles."

"Well, of course you do-- _everything_ about you is bigger than me!"

"I... thank you?"

"Everything except your ability to empathize, that is."

"Cee, I currently have a case of full blown acne, a mouthful of braces, and a voice that cracks every other syllable. You have one pimple on your cheek."

"And it has ruined me!"

"Well, good thing you're interning at a radio station, then-- you'll have the face for it."

"Say... You're right!"

"...what."

"You are so insightful, Birdie!"

"And here I thought I was so sarcastic."

"What does it matter if I am deformed by this repugnant pulsating pustule? No one can see its horrors on the radio! I may yet manage to contribute to society, in spite of my disfigurement! I may yet manage to maintain my dignity!"

"Says the dude openly weeping over a zit in front of his locker."

"Early, thank you! I am a man reborn! Oh, you always know just what to say to cheer me up!"

"And you always know just what to ignore to miss the point entirely."

"Say, let's get ice cream to celebrate!"

"Cee, sweets are _bad_ for your sk-- ...you know what, never mind."

"Yay! Let's get chocolate peanut butter cockroach ice cream!"

"Yeah, let's do that."


	98. Guest

**A/N:** Once again, I find myself with a week's worth of back-logged ficlets. Oops. Well, here's the first of 'em! Also, keep an eye open for the obligatory Twilight Zone shout-out. ;)

**XXX**

“Nope. Nope, nope, nope.”

“Oh, come on, now. Don’t be like that,” Earl sighs, his voice strained beneath the weight of escalating exasperation. He rakes a hand through his ginger hair. Cecil, meanwhile, continues to petulantly return the ingredients that his mate had earlier extracted to their respective homes: the pantry, the refrigerator, the garbage disposal. The Higher’s face is a mask of detached determination as he frees a jarful of spiders. “Cee!”

“Nope. This is not happening,” Cecil declares, his voice booming over the scurry of arachnids and his husband’s frustrated scolding. With a shudder, he shoves Earl’s chosen cookbook back into its slot on the shelf above the sink. All that remains of the Lesser’s preparations is a cradled bowl, and Cecil looks quite determined to get his hands on that, too. “I refuse to let this happen.”

“You can’t refuse to let Laura grow up,” Earl retorts, his tone so very dry that it dehydrates his batter. Frowning, irritation mounting, he reaches to add more water to the mixture, but finds his path to the sink barred by his lover, who simultaneously tries to snatch the mixing bowl. The chef only just manages to salvage his work by standing on his tippiest toes and holding the bowl high above said lover’s head. “Sweet Spire, Cecil!”

“She is _too young_ to have a boyfriend. We would be terrible parents to encourage this sort of reckless behavior!” the Higher argues—whines—as he makes another fruitless jump-grab for the bowl. “Let’s just un-invite the boy to dinner. Or, better yet, we could eat him!”

“Lolo would never forgive you,” the Lesser reminds, brow pinched as he tries to figure out the logistics of taking on a more hierarchically powerful eldritch being with manifesting Tattoos. The jibe, he assumes, is a good start. And sure enough, the reminder sets Cecil’s inky tendrils flickering—if only for a moment. Then they are solid, and strong, and seizing the bowl from a bitterly cursing redhead.

“She’d understand that it was for her own good. Maybe it would take a while, but she’d come around,” the Higher decides, clasping the bowl to his chest like a beloved baby. A beloved baby who is finally coming home, finally returning to Night Vale after a long semester abroad. A beloved baby who had apparently followed her eldritch-instincts and taken a souvenir in the form of some insignificant other. Or significant other, as the case may be. The universities of Svitz are very selective, after all. Laura is very selective, too.

Not quite as selective as her father, though.

“Cecil,” Earl says again, another sigh on his lips and empathy in his gaze. “Pretty thing, I understand, but you’re being unreasonable. In human years, Laura is nearly twenty. We weren’t even _that_ old when we started… well. Doing more than dating.”

“But that’s _different!_ ” Cecil wails, bubbled tears filling his pale lilac eyes as he claws at the metallic bowl. “We weren’t our daughter! If we _were_ , I wouldn’t have allowed _us_ to date, either!”

“…uh, okay, well, _no_ , we weren’t our daughter,” the Lesser agrees, deciding to forgo any attempt at following that logic, “but we _were_ our parents’ kids. And they let us be, didn’t they? I mean, _mostly_ ,” he amends, trying not to think too hard about That One Time. “And things worked out great for us. You have to let Lolo have a chance, too. You don’t want her turning into one of those lonely spinsters who lives with ten cats, right?”

“Actually—”

“ _Cecil!_ ” 

“…yeah, yeah. Okay, _fine_ , that would be kinda sad,” the Higher sniffles, bitter and begrudging. His giddy smile at the prospect of so many kitties is dampened by a scowl of resentful acceptance. He grumbles to himself, but nonetheless relinquishes the mixing bowl. Spiraled Tattoos wink back into the ether as Cecil slumps against the island counter, glowering at his infuriatingly smug mate. “I _guess_ I could at least meet this bastard.”

“That’s right. Good boy,” Earl coos, giving his husband’s head a loving stroke of praise. Now that his bowl has been returned, the chef begins re-extracting the other fixings he needs from the pantry, the refrigerator, and the garbage disposal. As he piles up his ingredients, he encouragingly adds, “And who knows? Maybe you’ll really like the guy.”

The Higher grunts. It does not particularly sound like a noise of agreement.

“…but if I _don’t_ ,” Cecil appends a long minute later, in the drawn and thoughtful manner of an evil mastermind. Giving his fingers an idle drum, he innocuously tilts his head and wheedles, “If he’s a total douchebag, or is rude to our baby in any conceivable way… Can we eat him?”

Earl smiles. He has again pulled out the night’s cookbook, and for the first time Cecil notes its title. _To Serve Man._

The Higher smiles back.


	99. Breakfast

**A/N:** Inspired by a pic from a photoset I saw on tumblr.

**XXX**

Earl stifles a yawn as he shuffles into the kitchen, scratching at the back of his head and squinting against the sunrise rudely prodding through the curtains. The clock on the microwave is busted again, its green glow rendered ineffectual and its declaration irrelevant, but the chef’s internal clock tells him that it is sometime just after 6, and he trusts that it is so. Cecil won’t be awake for another few hours, but Laura has a bus to catch and the twins a daycare to be deposited at, so Earl is up to fix his brood some semblance of a breakfast.

Still not-quite-as-roused as he’d prefer—he was, one might euphemistically say, up late last night—, the redhead gropes a bag of malt-o-meal from the pantry, along with jars of fruit preserves and bacon flakes. He scrounges, as well, a jug of orange milk from the fridge, then digs some fresh bananas from the crisper. Depositing the lot atop the gleaming island counter, Earl has just begun musing whether he should cut the bananas into triangles, or squares, or galaxies of little stars when he notices a dark smudge marring the seam of the nearest one’s peel. Blinkingly blearily, the redhead starts to sigh, knowing that his children will refuse to eat anything bruised…

But then he frowns, his weary brain catching up enough with reality to remind him that bruises rarely spell out words. They also rarely involve black sharpie pen. Earl looks again, plucking the fruit off of the countertop to give it a closer inspection.

_You put this thing to shame_ , the banana cheerfully declares, punctuated by a heart in Cecil’s curly handwriting.

…well then.

The redhead flushes, granting a temporary literalness to the term. Then he smiles, indulging in a private giggle before finishing his children’s meals.


	100. Babysitters

**A/N:** Chapter 100! Let's celebrate with Dangersock's Adam. Because everything needs more Adam, but especially celebrations.

**XXX**

_I’ll get it!_ Laura declares, fingers flailing above her head as she races into the foyer. The bell has barely finished the ‘ding’ of its standard ‘ding-dong’ when she yanks the door open, her grin wide and white and nearly maniacal. It is an expression eagerly returned by the man on the stoop. _Uncle Adam!_

“Lolo!” the rugged brunette greets in kind, reaching out to scrub at the helixing tendrils of her blonde-to-black hair. “Nice to see you, squirt. Have you been causing lots of trouble for your Papa?”

_Yes!_

“Good girl,” he praises, snickering as the 12 year old moves enough to let him inside. He gives her crown another fond pat as he swaggers into the vestibule, unsurprised by the general sounds of insanity echoing out of the kitchen. A crash, a bang, a shatter. Muffled cursing that no one but him would be able to parse. The brunette’s grin threatens to nick his ears as a towering redhead final pops around the corner, looking unusually haggard. “Well, well. Look what the cat roughed up and dragged in.” 

“Hey, now. Don’t give undue credit,” said redhead retorts in an unimpressed monotone. Gesturing vaguely at the mess of his shirt and hair and the bruises forming on the inside of his wrist, Earl says, “This is all the work of the boys. Well, mostly,” he amends, glancing briefly at his abused arm.

“Spirited little champs,” Adam coos, the words full of affection despite his general aura of sarcasm. “I figured as much, though, when you decided to call me. Don’t you usually ask that big-shot scientist to babysit?”

“Oh, Carlos is here, too,” Earl assures, motioning vaguely for Adam to work off his combat boots and come with him. It takes the other scoutmaster a bit longer than usual to manage the task, what with how Laura is happily crawling atop him. “And don’t take that as an insult. It’s not that I don’t think you’re capable on your own but—”

“You don’t think _he’s_ capable on his own?”

“I don’t think _I’m_ capable on my own, let alone anyone else,” the redhead snorts, leading the brunette-turned-horsie further into the house. Adam affects a gentle gallop that has a clinging Laura silently giggling. “Lolo’s a great help, but somehow two eldritch infants aren’t twice as hard to handle—they’re ten times more difficult. Especially during the midafternoon. I would highly suggest keeping them out of sunlight during the midafternoon, by the way.”

“Why, exactly?”

“Because that’s when shadows are the longest,” Earl elucidates, albeit somewhat cryptically. Adam figures he’ll understand soon enough, though, and merely readjusts his hold on his elected niece. “Carlos watched Laura all the time when she was the twins’ age, so he has some idea of how to care for eldritch offspring. And Cecil has written the both of you a novel’s worth of instructions re: Leland and Dale’s idiosyncrasies and eccentricities, which I trust you’ll find as gripping as Lolo’s hair, but—”

“Where _is_ Cecil, anyway?” Adam interrupts to inquire, glancing back and forth as if expecting the Higher to pop out of a random pantry or wormhole. He has been greeted by Laura and Earl, obviously. He can hear Carlos the Scientist talking aloud— either to himself or the unknown— from within the nearby nursery, his chipper observations punctured by pitching sobs and the squeal of escalating destruction. No doubt those latter noises are the work of the twins. But Cecil is nowhere to be seen or heard or found, and that seems highly unusual. Unless…

Adam’s eyes catch on the Cat Ballou calendar hanging on the wall above the trash bin. Then he winces, noting that the first red dot decorating the week of the equinox had been placed on Monday. Today is Tuesday.

Oh. Well, shit.

“Yeaaaah, we can’t really, uh, be in the same neighborhood, right now.” Earl clears his throat, looking uncomfortable for a number of different reasons. His freckles rage across pale skin, wanting and wild, as his right hand strangles the opposite’s wrist. The bruise deepens in color, shades of purple seeping outward. “But you couldn’t come over until today, and we couldn’t leave Carlos alone, so… Cecil’s at the hotel already. He’s probably fine. We’re—er—texting, so…”

The Lesser trails off, meaningful. As if cued, his cell phone begins to vibrate in his pocket. Jolting awkwardly, he wastes no time in fishing it out, coughing to cover up the sounds he instinctively wishes to make. Adam watches this, his face contorting into a look that is two parts alarm and one part empathy.

“Dude, I’m here now. I got this,” he assures, with a soft insistence that seems out of place amongst his usual teasing. “I’m sure Lolo and Carlos can explain to me whatever Cecil’s parenting tome can’t. So get the fuck out of here.”

“ _Adam!_ ” 

Earl bristles, glancing meaningfully towards the pre-teen sprawled across his friend’s back. Adam looks nonplussed. “Language!” he is thus reminded, the word a mortified hiss. Laura, for her part, rolls her eyes. The fact that the other scoutmaster manages to synchronize an identical response without being able to see her is actually a bit impressive.

“What? That language was perfectly appropriate. You _do_ need to get the fuck out of here,” Adam says, in the calm and even tones of an elementary school teacher. Which makes sense, really, as he is in fact an elementary school teacher. Earl always forgets that. Somehow. “The fuck is corrupting the babies. Go and bring that fuck to the hotel room, where it is very much wanted.”

“Dark gods below, Adam. This is why we never call you.”

“Your loss,” the brunette sings, crouching down enough to allow Laura to slide from his back. Once she’s off and has readjusted her skirt, the young girl scampers, ducking down the hall and into her parents’ bedroom. She emerges not a moment later, dragging a large duffle bag behind her as Adam works to drag Earl back down the hall they’d just come up. “But we can discuss your appallingly bad life choices later. For now, I’m here, and I’m not gonna let you make another bad choice. So go away and don't come home until after you’ve co—”

“All right, all right, I’m going!”

_Byeeee~ Have fun with Dad,_ Laura signs as she drops Earl’s luggage at his feet. She then offers him a kiss on the cheek before giving her Papa a gentle shove, sending him staggering over the jamb and out the open front door. Adam offers a cheery salute as Earl catches himself on the porch, stumbling back to a proper stand. The Lesser manages to look up just in time to catch the happy pair so-longing, his friend decreeing brightly: 

“And remember— Carlos and I are charging per womb nugget, so you might wanna use protection this time!”

The door slams to a shut. Earl wonders if he’s made a terrible mistake.

But then the phone in his fist gives another buzz. His amalgamating thoughts grow heady. And in those final moments between lucidity and frenzied insanity, he allows himself to trust.


	101. Changing

**A/N:** More thanks and love to Dangersocks!

**XXX**

The only reason that Earl can answer the phone at all is because he’s wearing his Bluetooth. Or still wearing it, as the case may be.

He’d shoved the silly thing in earlier that day—maybe an hour ago—, having needed both of his hands to console the weeping mess of his husband after said husband had taken a call from NVCR. It’s only been two weeks since their baby was carved out of the Higher, and his system is still in the process of readjusting to that change; to be reminded that there is more “normal” left to attain after his hormones and body revert to how they’d been a year ago had quickly sent Cecil into a spiral of racking sobs and an ennui he couldn’t quite verbalize. The weight of that crushing despair had only lessened after Earl had stolen the call, countering the yowls of Station Management with hollers of his own. And while the forces of darkness had been prepared to deal with Cecil, they hadn’t quite been as ready to engage with Cecil’s enraged mate. Station Management, having within some modicum of self-preservation, had been quick to disregard whatever nefarious plot they had concocted to entice the radio host back to work early, and instead reaffirmed the blood-pact that they had made to the Higher. The one that allowed him the full of his promised paternity leave. But with more pay. And no disruptions.

Coincidentally, ‘no disruptions’ had become Earl’s hope for the remainder of the afternoon. He wants his lover left alone, wants him to rest. So he had tucked the Higher back into bed, kissed him on the cheek, then scampered off to deal with the other party that he assumes the call had disturbed.

Lo and behold, his guess proves sound. This being despite general soundlessness. Earl rediscovers the guilt he’d previously absconded as he trips into Laura’s room, all rosy and pink and cute with happy mobiles of slaughtered sheep dangling from the ceiling. He rediscovers it, more specifically, in the form of a discontented newborn. Wee wisps of blonde-black hair undulate angrily as the baby wails, mute and offended and rightly annoyed at having been woken from her nap by Papa’s deafening fury about contractual obligations.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry, Lolo, but it’s all right now. There, there, baby girl…”

Cooing words of apology and promises for future silence, Earl moves to heft his child’s squirming body into his arms—

_Riiiiiing! Riiiiiiing!_

When the phone—as if personally cued by the gods of irony— begins whining for further attention, setting Laura off once more and no doubt doing nothing for Cecil’s nerves. Great. Perfect. Just what he needs. The Lesser would bang his head against the wall if he didn’t already need to bang his fist against his temple just to turn his damn earpiece back on.

“What?!” Earl snaps once he’s done so, an octave away from greeting his caller with a guttural growl. Not that he can bring himself to care about that. It’s probably just the dumb radio station, after all. Some tenacious intern set to the task of begging or—

“ _Goddamn. And here I thought you were supposed to be the polite one. Didn’t you earn a Manners Badge, like, first thing?_ ” mocks the voice on the other end, masculine and familiar but also not as much that second thing. Not anymore. Not recently, anyway. The Lesser freezes, frowning, a chill racing up his spine despite the sunbeam he’s been oscillating in. “ _Maybe you should consider giving that back_.”

Consciously, the redhead recognizes the granted pause as an invitation to snap something equally witty in return. What Earl manages instead is far less pithy than had likely been anticipated.

“I… Adam?” he gawps, readjusting his daughter so that she cannot see the contorted look of shock upon his face. She’s upset enough without having to witness something that grotesque. “Is that you?”

“ _The one and only!_ ” Adam chirps, with a smirk that travels the wires as easily as his words. Earl can visualize it perfectly; that mischievous grin of his hadn’t changed at all since they were Boy Scouts. “ _Yeah, sorry I haven’t called or anything. I had work. Specifically, a School Board meeting. You know how it goes. The last one only just finished._ ”

“…Adam, it’s been two years.”

“ _Yeah, it was a short meeting, as meetings go!_ ” the caller says, sounding pleased in the special way that only those with unexpected free time do. And that’s pretty pleased. “ _So anyway, I figured I’d call you up, see if you couldn’t escape the ol’ ball and chain long enough to get a drink. Hell, Cecil can come too, if he’s not working. I mean, I figure he is, since he always is at this time, but I haven’t seen his stupid face in ages either, so…_ ”

“Um,” Earl manages, apparently having hit his quota on eloquence earlier that day. It doesn’t help that Laura’s squirmy-wormy locks are poking into his ear and nostrils, tickling his nape as she drools and thrashes. Still unhappy, she gives her Papa’s shoulder a pointed gnaw, and the Lesser thinks he can smell why. Ew. He nearly forgets to reply entirely as he scurries over to the diaper table, applying pressure to the needle-sharp love-bite gifted by baby canines. “Yeah, er, sorry, Adam. We’re kinda busy tonight.”

“ _Oh... Well, I guess it is short notice_ ,” Adam rebounds, going from disappointed to cheerful again in five seconds flat. Which Earl finds a bit heartening, in truth, taking into consideration the thrall that his friend had no doubt spent the last two years under. All Hail, and all that. “ _How about tomorrow, then?_ ” 

“Sorry again, but probably not,” the redhead mumbles, only half paying attention as he works off his newborn’s footie jammies. He keeps one hand firmly planted on her minute chest as the other roots around for a fresh diaper and a hidden box of Wet Ones. So Wet. So One. All Are One in the Wetness. Trademark. “My schedule’s a bit full for the next, uh, eighteen years or so.” 

“ _Pft. Real funny._ ”

“I’m not being funny.”

“ _No kidding, you’ve never been very good at that. Though eighteen years isn’t a particularly arbitrary number. What— did you get elected for jury duty? Did Cee-Cee ground you for some torrid offence? Did you have a kid?_ ”

“No, no, and yes,” Earl retorts, wishing he could glare at the receiver in that cathartic way one does when using a handset. Regrettably, he can’t quite figure out the logistics for glowering at his own ear. Instead, he merely waits until sarcastic snickers fade into an awkward silence. In the meanwhile, he manages to fish out both a diaper and the wipes. Now to peel off the old diaper. He’s still new at this; it takes a few seconds. Three, two, one—

“ _HOLY SHIT._ ”

“Whoa. That’s about right,” Earl grunts, balling up and chucking the old diaper as quickly as he is physically able. He just as swiftly cleans his daughter’s dirty tushie, careful to keep anything yucky out of the reach of her animated hair. All the while, Adam is raving in his ear, sounding touched by madness in every possible way.

“ _Earl— you’re a father? Like, a real father? The kind that made a person? With his loins?!_ ”

“Masters of us all,” Earl winces, temporarily deafened by his old friend’s shrill shriek. “I’m glad they don’t teach reproductive sciences in second grade. You’d be trash at it. But yes. Well, sort of. I mean, she’s not technically a person, but...”

“ _She?!_ ” Adam echoes, for once forgoing the temptation of banter and insults in favor of gathering details. “ _You mean to tell me that you, Earl Harlan-Palmer, Scoutmaster to young boys, gay as the day is long, and overall ignoramus when it comes to the gentler sex, have a daughter?! A real little girl with little girly parts?_ ”

“Yes. And so help me I will skin you alive over the Eternal Animal Pyre if you use the phrases ‘sex’ and ‘girly parts’ in conjunction with my child ever again.”

The other blusters the threat away with a deriding scoff. Then, just as dramatically, he gasps aloud. Violently. Frantically. Earl can hear a starched button-down rustling as Adam begins to flail, excitedly declaring, “ _Dibs! I call godfather! Dibs! Dibs!_ ”

When Earl flinches this time, it is for a whole new set of reasons.

“Er, yeah. About that. Um, sorry,” he apologizes, scrubbing at his soiled hands with a fresh wipe as he does. Once he has deemed himself sufficiently clean, the Lesser begins buttoning Laura back into her onesie, his fingers not nearly as clumsy as his voice as he admits, “We… Well, we didn’t know if we’d ever hear from you again. And Carlos—you remember Carlos, right?—he was such a huge help during the pregnancy, so…”

So. That pretty much says it all. In return, Adam says a few choice words of his own, all of which are far more tactful than the redhead had been expecting. You know. Considering.

“ _Fuck me in a bucketful of shit—seriously?! That scientific bastard. Well, next time, then. I call dibs, you hear me? Dibs. And you know what kinds of misfortunes fall on those who break the sacred invocation that is dibs_.”

“Adam. You can’t call dibs on a baby that may or may not ever exist,” Earl deadpans. Or he means to, anyway. His tone is unfortunately animated by the series of love-struck kissy faces he makes at his daughter, hoisting her off of the changing table and kissing the tip of her bitty button nose. There are a strip of his freckles over the bridge of it. They wiggle under his ministrations, much like Lolo’s itty little limbs. “Oooo, you are so cute I could just eat you up! Yes, I could! Yes, I could! You’d make the sweetest little meatloaf to serve at Tourniquet! That’s right! Who is Papa’s little meatloaf? You aaaare,” the Lesser sing-songs, mindless of the fact that he is still technically on the phone.

Laura thanks her father for the compliment with a mildly radioactive spit bubble. Adam continues to muse aloud, always one to want in on the action. 

“ _If you refuse to promise me a baby to call dibs on, then maybe this one’s current godfather will meet with an unfortunate ‘accident._ ’”

Oh, dark gods below.

This time, Earl really does manage a drawl. “Adam, I swear to Cthulhu…” he trails off wearily, curling Laura back to his breast. The tendrils of her hair latch through the woolen loops of his knit sweater, as do her teeny fingers. On the opposite end of the line comes the sound of bigger fingers snapping.

“ _Ah! That reminds me! I saw the cutest Cthulhu plushie online earlier this week during one of the scheduled breaks for fearful weeping…_ ”

“Do not buy it,” the Lesser orders, trying and failing to sound as authoritative as his husband might. Cecil can sound so impressive when he wants to. Earl, on the other hand, probably sounds constipated. And while making a command had been worth a shot, that shot had missed the target entirely.

“ _She is gonna love it_ ,” Adam decrees, snickering.

“She is not gonna love it.”

“ _She is so gonna love it. And— damn! That’s some set of pipes she’s got!_ ”

“Uh. Actually, that’s Cecil. He must have had a nightmare,” Earl informs, the unexpected howl giving him a nasty start. The lights in the room flicker; Adam’s voice is temporarily distorted as radio waves go haywire. But though the sudden outburst takes the older men aback, it doesn’t much bother the babe. After eleven months and a ritualized birth, Laura is far more attune to the agonized shrieking of her Daddy; she does not take nearly as much issue with Cecil’s screams as she earlier had Earl’s. Rather, she continues to cuddle and doze, adamantly comfortable against her Papa’s chest. The Lesser tries for a moment to detach her, but just as soon surrenders. He doesn’t want to hurt her, and he doesn’t want to make his mate wait. He’s out the door half a second later, jogging down the hall with the newborn in his arms. “I gotta go. And you should rest. But… We’ll see you soon?”

It is half-question, half-hopeful invitation. The Lesser pauses as he skids to a halt beside the master bedroom.

On the other end of the line, Adam snorts, the laugh crackled.

“ _Duh_.”

Smiling, Earl tosses his Bluetooth.


	102. Soaps

**A/N:** Behold-- a dramatization of this one time I busted my mum. Sorry, mum.

**XXX**

“Hey there, Lolo. What’s my little meatloaf up to?”

Draping a bloodied Tourniquet apron over his arm, Earl crouches beside his diaper-clad toddler. Once again, he’d returned home to find that Laura had pillaged the kitchen cabinets of their pot and pans, lids and ladles, and had built for herself a small fortress. She stares up at her Papa from beneath the helmet of a mixing bowl, her medusian hair undulating out from beneath its metallic lip. In her chubby baby fist she holds an oversized spatula, which she had been mindlessly—and quietly—striking against a drum set comprised of Tupperware.

In response to the question, she blinks. Her head cocks.

Earl smiles, tucking a particularly unruly curl behind his daughter’s ear. It sproings back into the air half a second later, twining more tenaciously around the handle of the mixing bowl as he presses, “It’s almost 4 o’clock, right? Isn’t that Don’t Hug Me I’m Scared time?”

“~~~”

With a noncommittal puff of her cheeks, Laura starts softly thrashing the Tupperware again. But this time, her father notices more rhyme and rhythm to the beatings. It’s not random. It’s Morse code. Generally employed by fist to summon her parents, Lolo sometimes uses the code to sing to herself when her hands are otherwise occupied. She isn’t singing now, though. Instead, she’s calmly relaying:

/No Hug. Dada say soaps time./

“…oh really.”

The Lesser cocks an eyebrow, speaking with a flatness of tone that alludes to far more than a three year old could possibly understand. Silly adult things, mostly, like mocking echoes of ‘I’m not addicted to soap operas, those things are silly’ and ‘okay so maybe I watch a few but I can stop at any time’ and ‘I said I could stop, not that I wanted to.’ Earl glances towards the living room, where he does indeed hear the muffled sounds of the television. Rolling his eyes, he offers, “Well, how about I talk to Daddy for you.”

“…~”

The little girl expresses her gratitude by picking up a whisk, giggling mutely as its many rungs jingle. She then returns the full of her attentions to her castle of kitchen supplies, not really seeming to care one way or the other. Which is all well and good in theory, but Earl does kind of need those supplies if his family wants to eat dinner. And Laura, bless her, is at that age where sharing is not yet a thing. So if he is to have his kitchen back, a sacrifice will have to be made.

He knows just who will be making it, too.

“Cecil...”


	103. Feeding

“I’ve got a surprise for you ~” Cecil sing-songs, his amethyst eyes shimmering with barely contained delight. Ever her Daddy’s daughter, Laura responds with barely contained agitation: squirming and fussing and generally looking displeased. After all, the sun is up, which means that plants and werewolves and other lesser animals are feasting on free life force, yet here she is, starving. It is completely unfair; though she’s a creature of darkness, she should be fed, too. And fed more than just sweet words. Hoping to convey this, she nudges against the Higher’s chest, gnashing her bity jaw. The rosy light of the nursery catches against her third set of baby canines, making her look more like a vampire than an eldritch being. The sight has Cecil beaming, even as Laura grows sulkier. 

“Yes, yes. That’s part of the surprise,” the Higher reassures, blindly groping for the arm of the bedroom’s rocking chair. Once he’s found it, Cecil lowers himself into its familiar embrace, never once breaking eye contact with his hungry offspring as he expounds, “See, you’re six months old today, Lolo! Six months! Papa and I can hardly believe it! We’re still so happy that you’re here, and that you’ve been here for a whole half year! That’s pretty neat,” he coos, love-struck and tickling the baby’s pudgy tummy. Laura can’t giggle of course, but she squirms like she would laugh if she could. She also whines, opening and closing her fingers and mouth in a silent demand for food. Food. _Ugh._ Sentimentalities later, geez…

The Higher snorts, as if on his daughter’s behalf. As he does so, a single Tattoo manifests with a slither: thick and supple and silken as it winds towards the infant’s pouting lips. When the familiar appendage loops into her line of vision, Laura visibly perks, latching onto its end with a ravenous suckle and a happy flail of her feet. Her hair flails in much the same way, coiling around the tendril to keep it where she likes it. Enchanted, Cecil watches his baby feed with a goofy grin on his face, gingerly toying with her itty hand and even ittier fingers.

“Anyway,” he then continues, with poorly feigned but playful exasperation, “the surprise _is_ food related. Which I thought you might appreciate, being the adorable glutton that you are. See, Papa and I were talking, and we thought that—tonight—we would let you try your first solid food! Isn’t that exciting?!”

The Higher cheers like an entire applauding stadium, albeit a hushed one— cooing with an enthusiasm that Laura mirrors in her eating, if nothing else. To be fair, she probably has no idea what he’s blabbering on about. But she does, at least, indulges her Daddy’s excitement as he awkwardly pauses, reconsiders, and revises, “Well, not _solid_ solid. But we’re going to make you fresh nutmeg mash! I love fresh nutmeg. I’m sure you’ll love it, too! Papa is deveining it for you right now. Isn’t that nice of him?”

The prompt is met by a breathy belch, which in turn is underscored by a messy spatter of ichor. Cecil tuts indulgently, patting Laura’s little mouth clean of spit and sustenance as his Tattoo dematerializes. Animated tresses flounder, having lost their anchor. The Higher readjusts too, setting the baby against his shoulder and gently patting her back. Or trying to, anyway. As usual, Laura is so eager to nuzzle after feeding that she becomes something of a supernatural barnacle, weak limbs and strong locks curling around the Higher’s head. She clings to him, blowing raspberries. She prods at him, poking eyes and nostrils. She winds up vomiting in his hair, rather than on the burping cloth. Just like always.

Cecil shudders, a chunky, tepid wetness seeping down the back of his pajamas. That’s another pair ruined. Even still, he smiles. 

“Happy six months to you, too, Lolo.”


	104. Shower

“I take it Laura has been fed?”

“And what gave that away, exactly? My happy saunter...? The dematerialization of my bloated Tattoos...?”

“The vomit covering half of your face...” Earl offers, smiling sympathetically as his mate meanders back into the bedroom. The Lesser, freshly showered, had been in the middle of selecting the day’s clothes when Cecil had returned with a shuffle, looking weary. Also wet. His biocolored hair is stuck up at odd angles, stiffening beneath a crust of ichor and baby spit. Something stringy is draining from his ear, leaving navy dribbles on his right shoulder and stains down his back. After three months of this daily routine, both men are getting used to the mess; still, that doesn’t stop the redhead from wincing away when Cecil takes a step too close. “Ew. C’mon, babe, I just washed.”

The Higher feigns an offended gasp, eyes wide. Or one eye wide, anyway. The other remains shut on account of slime. “Why, Earl Harlan-Palmer! For shame! This putrid sludge currently bleaching my hair is a symbol of our baby’s love for us!”

“And I am very happy that she is showering you in love,” Earl drawls, taking a preemptive step into their walk-in closet. His freckles recede all the further, mimicking the crawl of his skin as he adds, “But until you take a shower of a different sort, please don’t undo all the hard work that Lush put into this.”

The Lesser gesticulates briefly at his own body, still damp and towel clad. Cecil, as directed, observes the hard work that Lush had put into his husband. He observes quite a bit, thinking about other hard things that he might put into his mate. Humming, the Higher makes a very blatant show of appreciating both said observations and said thoughts. Earl, in turn, flushes, turning the same pink as their bar of Rock Star soap. He then jabs rather pointedly at the bathroom, where wafts of warm steam are still billowing. “Clean yourself up and then we can talk.”

“Or not talk?” the Higher retorts hopefully, wiggling his eyebrows. Eyebrow. The other is still stuck in the mire, as it were. His husband snorts, even as he shoos Cecil towards the tub.

“Don’t you want breakfast, too?”

“Yes, very much. In bed, if you please.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Earl laughs, leaving the closet to helpfully close the restroom door behind the Higher. “In the meantime, I think your ‘favorite conditioner’ has long since set. You better wash it o—!”

A squeak. A squeal. Earl stumbles as an oily, oddly hollow black tendril suddenly coils around his wrist, yanking him into the bathroom. The slam of the door is underscored by a playful giggle.

“I need your help. I think I dropped the soap.”


	105. Honeymoon

“So, where do you want to go for our honeymoon?” 

“Hm… Down south.”

“Like New Mexico?”

“Farther.”

“…Mexico?”

“Faaaarther~”

“Uh, let’s see. Mayb— _?!_ Gah! C-Cecil!”

“Oh, this is my _favorite_ place!”

“For fuck’s sake—”

“That _is_ the intention.” 

“—Cee, _please!_ Every time I try to have this conversation with you, you—!”

“You utterly miss the point that I’m trying to make?”

“Y-you mean the 'point' th-that you very successfully do make… are making…”

“…I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but that actually _wasn’t_ an entendre. Intentionally, anyway.”

“R-riiiight. I’ll believe that when you s-stop trying to, ahem, m-make that point again…”

“Well, I don’t wanna do that. I have plans for that point. So I guess I’ll just be blunt with my words instead. Look, baby. I know you want our wedding to be fairytale magical, and I am fine with that. But fairytale magic is expensive, we don’t have a lot of money, and I don’t plan on letting you leave the bed _anyway_ , so why don’t we just make it easy for you to be easy and stay at home for our honeymoon?”

“Mmm…”

“…are you listening?”

“Mmmmmm…”

“Did you hear a thing I just said?”

“U-uh… I, um, am trying t' listen… and think of a— ah— response ... But I’m f-finding it increasingly hard—” 

“Me too!”

“—to _think_ , to think, dammit, C-Cecil—! Hah—!”

“Oh, _c’mon_ , it’s just a simple yes or no. And dark gods know you can’t say no to me like this, anyway.”

“Hey! I c-could t-too— oh, _oh_ yes!”

“Winning!”

“Ah, Masters, you little—! _Hngh_ , f-fuck you…”

“Oh, _yes_ , please~”


	106. Poker

“I’ve got nothing,” Cecil declares—and quite proudly at that—as he spreads his hand atop the table and strips off his shirt. With aplomb, the pinstriped button-down is tossed towards a pile of other laundry, its absconder’s grin as long as the arced spread of his cards.

Earl cocks an incredulous eyebrow, his legs crossed and a single sock dangling from his right foot.

“Cee,” he lightly says, gathering back the flats and reshuffling the amassed deck, “I don’t want to assume anything, but… You _do_ know that the goal of strip poker is to remain _clothed_ , right? You want to _win_.” 

“Well, I certainly _feel_ like I’m winning,” Cecil counters, ever-cheerful, as he again assesses the scene. He remains in possession of his underwear, a beret, and a dazzling smile; Earl has his aforementioned sock, his scout sash, and a pair of khaki shorts. Giggling, the radio host's cheeks color to match his recently manicured nails as he reminds, “Besides, what matters isn’t if you win or lose. It’s how you play the game.”

“You play the game badly.”

“I’m just playing with a different end-goal in mind.”

“You don’t say?” the redhead comments, conversational, while doling out another round. His companion’s nod is sage as he plucks up his newest hand, idly rearranging it.

“I do. I mean, as you well know, I have always preferred to be the pok _ee_ rather than the pok _er_.”

It is a bad joke. It is a terrible joke, and for more than one reason. Earl chokes on the awful of it, dropping his cards. Cecil responds by cheering, dropping his boxers.

“Yay, you have a flush! You win again, Birdy!”

He does indeed.


	107. ABCs

**A/N:** For Kris. She knows why.

**XXX**

“Adam, she’s barely two.”

“So there’s no time to start like the present!” the schoolteacher cheers, balancing Laura expertly against the jut of his hip. The barely-two-year-old pays her Papa’s friend less attention than she does his classroom, her blue eyes wide and marveling at the many soft toys and colorful pictures scattered about. Earl, seemingly dubious, has taken a very tiny seat near the display monitor and whiteboard; Adam, with his usual theatrics, has plopped himself onto a spindly chair and spun with the baby over to the extravagant ABC poster on the sidewall. “It’s not uncommon for parents these days to try and get their babies reading by Lolo’s age. And as her godfather—”

“Adam, I told you, you’re not her—”

“—it’s important to me that she be given every opportunity to crush those who would oppose her, whether the field of battle be literal or intellectual. And it all starts here!” he exclaims with a flourish, fluttering his fingers before the inscribed alphabet. Earl hums a reply, not quite as enthusiastic about this excursion but also unable to deny the other’s claims. Laura, by contrast, merely looks bemused. From her perch atop Adam’s lap, the little girl stares up at her pseudo-uncle, confused but unresisting when he takes one of her tiny hands in his.

“All right, squirt,” he then tells the baby, grinning broadly as he coos, “impress me. Can you find A? Let’s find A.”

And she does. With a bit of gentle coaxing—as well as a tiny scoot to bring them closer to the poster—Laura manages what had been asked of her. She gives a soundless giggle, slapping the vibrantly polka-dotted character that Adam sets her palm atop of. The brunette cheers encouragingly when she does, stamping a kiss to the soft of her temple.

“Very good, Lo! Okay. What about B? Where’s B?”

Earl watches, unable to shake some lurking suspicion, as his companion assists his daughter in locating the next letter of the alphabet. It’s not that he’s ungrateful for Adam’s help, nor that he’s unmoved by his friend’s desires to spend time with Laura… But he’s also known Adam since he was the age of a human toddler, and so is quite certain that some mischief must be percolating in the brunette’s head. His smile is just too eager to be trusted.

“C is…? Wow! Nice work! You’re a fast learner!” Adam praises, rewarding the child by bouncing her once, twice, three times atop his knee. Laura, enchanted, mutely squeals, her hair forming helixes of delight. As far as she’s concerned, this is the best day ever. She likes her uncle, she likes bouncing, and she likes hitting things. Moreover, she likes that whatever game they’re playing isn’t over yet. She blows a gleeful bubble of spit as Adam once more lifts her to the poster, urging, “Okay, now, Laura: Touch the D.”

And there it is.

“Oh for— Sweet _Spire_ , Adam.”

“That’s it!” the other Scoutmaster smirks, trying valiantly not to laugh as Laura swats at the appropriate letter. She shudders a bit in his embrace, juddering along with his arms as he begins to cackle madly; behind him, Adam can sense Earl becoming equally mad. “Show me the D. Wow, that’s a _big D,_ isn’t it? Do you like the D?”

“You are the worst human being on the face of the planet,” Earl decrees flatly, abandoning his bitty chair with a graceless clatter. Once the Lesser has relocated his center of balance, he marches over to Adam and messes up the brunette’s. The spindly chair squeals as Earl gives it a kick, already having yanked Laura from Adam’s grip. Adam squeaks, but catches himself; his smirk is equal parts feigned indignation and amusement as he tries and fails to affect an innocuous expression.

“What? Dude, I’m a teacher, and let me tell you, kids mess up B and D all the time. The D is hard! _So_ hard.”

“Well, I’ve got two letters for you. F U,” Earl snaps in retort, his expression as flat as the ABC poster he indicates. Laura, safe again with her Papa, squirms in an attempt to smack the characters herself. Adam, noticing this, offers the baby a sunny beam as a reward, clapping and crooning:

“Oh, look at that! I love a girl who’s excited to learn. Let’s review, too, squirt. Let’s tell your Papa that he’s being a little B! Can you point to little B?”

“No worries, I’ll point to it for her.” 

“Uh oh! Naughty Earl! Boys who use _that_ finger to point have to go to the principal’s office.” 

“Yeah, I think we’ll just go home.”


	108. Weiner

" _Oooooh~_ "

"No."

" _I wish I was an Oscar Mayer weenier~_ "

"Cecil, I said no. Don't you dare."

" _That is what I'd truly like to be~_ "

"Remember when you wanted to know the reason why I never ask for your help in the kitchen? This is it. This is the reason."

"' _Cause if I was an Oscar Mayer weenier~_ "

"Cecil, I swear to God if you finish that sentence--"

" _Earl would never stop deep throating me!_ "

"...I hate you."


	109. Race

“Okay. Are you ready?”

“Ready!” Cecil trills, snuggling down all the more comfortably within the embrace of the sofa. Over one of the arm rests he’s draped his swollen feet; against the base of the other, his head is cushioned by a throw pillow. Earl has already helped him work off the buttons of his shirt, exposing the bulbous mount of his pregnant belly. Writhing Tattoos—as excited as the Higher that they’re attached to—have formed a series of winding, ridged lines and bumpers that trail down the steep swell of Cecil’s stomach. The impromptu track ends in an inky tendril that has been arranged over Cecil’s collar, protecting his nose from the very real possibility of getting front-ended. The Higher doesn’t think too hard on such risks though, instead choosing to focus on the pleasant weight of the two matchbox cars that his mate has perched on the precipice of his abdomen.

The redhead’s grin is equally excited as he pretends to rev the models. His doing so awakens something—two somethings—that begin to roil beneath taut skin, sending a series of shockwaves through the tiny course. The monstrous quakes remind Cecil of childhood drag races out in the sand wastes. He giggles, one hand rubbing soothingly at the base of his tummy as the other twirls a bitty checkered flag. Earl watches that cloth carefully, waiting for it to fall. Knowing that it will. When he least expects it…

“No cheating this time,” the Lesser murmurs as he stares, refusing even to blink. His husband feigns an affronted gasp.

“I never cheat!”

“You totally cheated with Laura.”

“Did not.”

“Cee, I can see your Tattoos mov— _gah!_ ”

“Go!”

With a laugh, Cecil simultaneously drops the flag and shoves his Volkswagen Flesh-Eating Beetle with a dexterous tendril. The trendy pink vehicle chitters past Earl’s silver Jaguar, gravity pulling it ahead and down and faster. _Faster_. The men cheer on their miniature cars as Tattoos and ample downward momentum guide them through a circuit of twists, turns, and unpredictable baby kicks. The tension ramps. They agree that they should totally get a ramp. Also a loop-the-loop. And though it is ultimately a close call, it is also an unquestionable fact that the fender of the Beetle is the one to first tap against the pseudo-finish line.

His model’s triumph elicits a mighty cheer from the hyper Higher. The delight of that outburst does well in drowning out the playful booing of his lover. 

“Best two out of three?” Earl demands as Cecil wiggles a victory dance, looking very smug indeed. Still, the grin that the Higher wears is adoring as plucks up his mate’s hand and kisses its freckled back.

“Only because I love you.”

“And because you cheat.”

“Do not.”

“Do s— _gah!_ ”


	110. Printer

CECIL

(Received): OMG

(Received): OMG EARL

(Received): EARL

(Sent): What is it, babe?

(Received): CARLOS GOT A 3D PRINTER AND IT IS. SO. NEAT. 

(Sent): Awesome!

(Received): IT PRINTED OUT A LITTLE BOAT. IT IS SO CUTE. IT FLOATS! CAN WE GET ONE?

(Sent): Cee, 3D printers are crazy expensive. Can I interest you in an origami boat instead? 

(Received): OMG CARLOS SAID I COULD PRINT SOMETHING OUT OMG OMG OMG

(Received): QUICK BABY SEND ME A PICTURE OF YOUR DICK

(Received): EARL

(Received): C'MON, I SEE YOU READ MY MESSAGE

(Received): EAAAAAAARLLLL SEND ME A DICK PIIIIIIIIIIIC 

(Received): EAAAAAAAARLLLL

(Received): ...you are horrible and know nothing about fun. ): 

(Sent): At least I know something about class. 

(Received): I printed out a little cat instead. I hope you're happy.

(Sent): Ecstatic. 

(Sent): I've gotta get back to work, Cee. 

(Received): Earl

(Received): Earl

(Received): Earlllllllllll

(Sent): Yes, yes, yes?

(Recieved): I'm sorry. I was being a dick.

(Sent): Ironic. Also accurate. 

(Received): I know, I know. But I couldn't resist. Tourniquet has long hours and regular dildos just can't compare.

(Sent): ...I think I'm flattered?

(Received): You should be, big boy. ;)

(Received): Hey 

(Received): Since I couldn't have a copy today, could I have the real thing tonight? <3

(Sent): I think that can be arranged.


End file.
